The God of Death
by Tyrant of the East
Summary: The Death Spectres of the Adeptus Astartes have served the Imperium for nine thousand years. They are the thin line of resistance between eternal damnation and humanity. Now, one Space Marine finds himself stranded on a world called Azeroth.
1. New Surroundings

Chapter 1

The staccato boom of my boltgun reverberates among the dark confines of the forest, shattering the illusion of peace that had settled only minutes before. Another of the goat legged daemons tumbles back, a smoldering crater in its chest. Its death wail gurgles off to a throaty rasp as the massive wound I inflicted seeps tainted blood into the hungry soil. I step by its now still form, and pause to regard its twisted visage. A purple, vaguely human face stares blankly back at me, features slackened by the touch of death. Two curved horns sprout from its crown, ending in sharp, deadly tips. I glance down further and see a muscular chest coated with thick brown fur, already matted with drying blood. My lips turn into a sneer behind the cold ceramite of my helm as I recite the Litany of Hatred.

Of all things that exist in this unforgiving universe, the daemonic are what we astartes abhor the most. The cause of the Horus Heresy, the source of uncountable deaths, the reason mankind totters at the brink of extinction. I feel my twin hearts beat faster as the anger courses through my veins. In my mind, I swear an oath to the Emperor. I will purge this world of its corruption, of its taint.

The ground shudders as my boots stomp away from the carnage I have dealt.

* * *

"By Elune… two dozen satyrs… it massacred them…" the soft voice of a sentinel drifted towards the sensitive ears of Keina Stormsong.

"They didn't stand a chance," another whispered in awe.

Keina shushed them with a glance. They were her warriors, guardians of Darnassus and of the kaldorei people. They were sentinels, tasked with patrolling the borders of night elf domains, eliminating those who would dare intrude on sacred grounds unlawfully. Many decades of warfare toughened them to what they were today. Ambush masters, silent death from afar.

"Should we try to communicate with it?" Keina's second in command asked, gripping her curved bow tightly.

"No Mellia. Despite us having a common enemy, we still do not know its true intentions. We will watch and we will wait."

The sentinels nodded, and disappeared into the surrounding foliage, silently tracking this god of war.

* * *

The twisted creatures are even uglier up-close, I muse to myself. Yellow, hellish eyes glare back at me with deep hatred, as my visors focuses on its face. A deep throated bellow sounds from its mouth, struggling to free itself from my iron grip. It is a fruitless effort, and soon I grow bored of observing its features. I slam the daemon's face into a nearby tree, splattering chips of bone and brain matter as vulnerable flesh meets unyielding bark. I turn to face the others, circling around me warily like predators around prey. They do not realize that I am the predator.

My bolter booms as it sends exploding shells into the shocked daemons. They do not expect my instrument of destruction. One of the goat legged daemons wails, its stomach burst open by a detonating shell. Shredded entails fill the air. Another howls in agony, spinning back, arm torn from its shoulder. The third one doesn't utter a sound. Its eyes are dull, still staring in horror at its lower body, ten feet away.

Before they have a chance to react, I charge, my massive bulk scattering the warp spawn like bowling pins. A clawed arm lashes out at me. I seize it with a gauntleted hand, and snap the limp from its elbow joint. I savor the following scream. An additional one rushes at me head on. I swing my boltgun like a club and rectify its mistake. The daemon's neck snaps nearly a hundred eighty degrees, severing the spinal cord. I ignore the sagging body and punch another in the chest. I hear the ribs break before I see the torso caving in. The warp being is propelled backwards, tumbling into a broken heap. I swivel on my heel. The last one is fleeing. I raise my bolter to eye level. I tap the trigger lightly. My weapon answers gladly. A belching roar. An explosion of gore. The daemon staggers drunkenly forward without its head. It collapses.

* * *

"Elune preserve us, Elune preserve us, Elune preserve us." Mellia was murmuring fervently to herself.

The other sentinels were in no better shape. One looked ready to wretch at the slaughter they had just unintentionally witnessed. Even after decades of war, of senseless bloodshed, Keina still had never witnessed this sort of brutality before. They all had gasped collectively as the strange rectangular object this strange being carried roared like ten nightsabers. They had all been stricken as three of the satyrs fell among eruptions of blood and vitae, followed by the rest as the black clad god launched itself into their midst with surprising speed.

"What do we do now?"

Keina looked back and saw something she hoped she would never see again. Utter fear. Engraved on each and every one of her warriors' faces.

"We head back to Darnassus. Warn Lady Tyrande of this… this thing." Keina hoped her voice was as resolute as she wanted it to be.

A sickening crunch caused all of them to peek back at the scene before them. They immediately wished they hadn't. The thing slowly raised a massive foot, disentangling itself from the pulped upper remains of a satyr.

"Quickly sentinels," Keina urged.

A grating, metallic voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Show yourselves, I grow tired of playing hide and seek."


	2. Contact

_Forgot to write this on the first page. Warhammer 40k is a product of Games Workshop, Warcraft is a product of Blizzard, yadda yadda yadda. _

_Edokage: The way I figure it, is that though night elves certainly do know about guns, their knowledge won't be on par, as to let's say a dwarf, who would be quite familiar with black powder weapons. That and the guns in the Warcraft universe are all pretty much smoothbore blunderbusses which look very different from a boltgun. If it was a dwarf who saw our space marine first, he or she would no doubt recognize the bolter as a gun, but for a night elf sentinel, since it doesn't look like a gun she's used to seeing, she'll have no idea what it really is._

_Dusel: Thanks! There probably won't be any faction massacres in this fanfic. The main reason is simply for the plot. If our hero runs into the Exodar screaming his head off about heresy and purging xenos, the other factions won't take very kindly to that I'm sure._

_Long Live Warhammer 40k and skipper 1337: Thanks! _

_Soulless reader: Our astartes comes from a more level headed chapter so, no killing sprees, unless it's the enemy of course! _

Chapter 2

The enemies of the Emperor fear us, so they strive to avoid our wrath. Those who are cowardly, hide from us. Those who have an inkling of courage, shadow us in the hopes of catching us unawares. Such a misplaced hope. We astartes long have realized the potency of stealth in warfare. Our neophytes train in the aspects of silence and secrecy the day they are brought into the chapter. For me, that was nearly two centuries ago. But a space marine never forgets his training.

My superhuman senses had long picked out my stalkers. I knew their numbers; a dozen. I knew their positions; crouching on the sturdy branches of trees, hidden from view. What I didn't know, was what they were. I needed to find out.

"Show yourselves, I grow tired of hide and seek," my power armor's built in vox amplifies my already loud voice.

A faint rustle, and my pursuer drops from a large tree, landing gracefully on supple legs. My visor's targeting array instantly zooms a crosshair on her form. I disregard it for now. My first impression is the light purple tinge of her skin, and my finger instinctively reaches for my boltgun's trigger. I take note of her shapely figure, clad in scale armor and feathers. Her belly is exposed, taut and fit with muscle. Impossibly long ears stretch back, twitching and delicate. Large, moon shaped eyes examines me with fear, suspicion, and awe. If she could see into the eyes behind my helm, there would be no other emotion except fear.

A century of battle honed senses screamed at me to shoot her. A century of experience on numerous worlds reasoned no good could come from her existence. A century of hate and loathing ordered me to pull the trigger. A small voice of logic reminded me of my situation and urged me to consider carefully. I listened to it.

I lowered my weapon a fraction. The xeno saw this as a trustworthy action, and stepped hesitantly towards me, hands raised in the universal gesture of peace.

* * *

Keina Stormsong swallowed her fears as she slowly approached the black clad giant. It was huge, she realized. The sentinels had postulated this strange being's size from afar, yet had never reached a conclusion.

Keina halted a few feet from this living god and looked down, unwilling to stare into the twin red eyes that bulged from a bone white helm. As her sight dropped to the ground, wandering eyes took in the gigantic chest plate embroidered with a skull with outstretched wings. The massive pauldrons etched in white that engulfed the being's shoulders. The powerful legs, decorated with scripts of parchment, thicker than a tree trunk. And perhaps the most intimidating of all, the gargantuan weapon cradled in its arms.

"Speak." Keina winced as the harsh tone of the giant rang discordantly in her sensitive ears. She took a deep breath.

"Greetings stranger… I-I am Keina Stormsong of the Sentinels," the night elf shuddered slightly as a whirring click sounded from above, "we welcome you to our lands and—"

"Then you are familiar with the terrain xeno?" the grating voice interrupts her introduction.

"Y-yes, my people have long tended to the forests of this place."

"I care not for your trees and bushes." Keina quickly bit back a retort at these words. "Where is the nearest Imperial outpost?"

"Imperial? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Yes. Imperial as in the Imperium of Man. I need to establish contact with my chapter." The giant's voice is laced with impatience.

"I'm sorry but there is no… Imperium… of Man here."

* * *

My mind reels from this information. No Imperium of Man? Impossible. Completely impossible. Is this xeno wench purposefully denying the Emperor's might? Humanity has ruled the stars for ten millennia, millions of worlds, trillions of people. Our empire stretches from holy Terra to the distant fringes of the universe. Daily, our armies clash with xenos, traitors, and heretics on countless war zones. No Imperium of Man? Preposterous.

Yet, as I glare down at this blue skinned xeno, I realize she isn't lying. Whether her brain has been picked clean by the offspring of a grox or through willful ignorance, she does not understand that beyond this pitiful planet, lies the galactic might of a realm greater than she could possibly fathom.

I push these thoughts away from my conscience.

"Very well, where is the nearest settlement then?" I ask.

"Astranaar. A few leagues away from here." The xeno replies warily.

"Take me to this… Astranaar," the words burn on my lips, and I remind myself to purge my mouth with holy water for speaking the foul language of the alien.

"I will. But first you must swear not to harm our people."

I am incredulous. How dare this… this… filth make me swear an oath? We astartes give our oaths only to the Emperor and to our fellow brothers. Who is she to force me to give a sacred promise on her fanciful whims?

"Oaths are something your tainted mind will never comprehend alien," her eyes darts towards my face, glinting with suspicion, "however, I understand your concerns. I will ensure you that I will not be… overzealous in my duties to the Emperor."

She nods faintly at this, and beckons for me to follow.

* * *

"I do not trust it Keina," Mellia hissed in Darnassian.

"I don't either, but what choice do we have? Better to keep an eye on it than allow it to wonder around Ashenvale unimpeded," the Night Elf commander replies, glancing back at the metal giant that trotted behind them.

"Agreed, but still---" Keina's second in command tumbled into the sentinel in front of her, who a second ago, had been springing forward.

"Why did you stop? Oh… By Elune… No…" Mellia's voice halted into a miserable whisper as she saw what the sentinel saw.

Keina didn't have the strength to reply. Her knees buckled and she fell, tears streaming down her cheeks. Astranaar was in flames.


	3. Astranaar in Flames I

_Weapon-VII: Thanks! As far as I know, the night elves are thicker in build than an Eldar, who are quite slim and lithe. That and a night elf's skin will range from a miasma of blue to purple, which differentiates them from space elves quite radically. To the our space marine, a night elf is just another xeno, and though there are similarities between them and the Eldar, there are also enough differences to mark them apart as well. As for the blood elves, well, that's another matter entirely! The Scarlet Crusade will undoubtedly make an appearance in this fanfic, but that'll be much later in the book. _

_Skipper_1337: Thanks! The interaction between the Chaos gods and the Burning Legion is indeed interesting, but their relation will be revealed in later chapters!_

Chapter 3

I see now why these xenos have stopped. Their settlement is in the throes of death, defiled by the tainted daemons of Chaos. The xeno leader, the one who parleyed with me, drops to her knees in shock and despair. I feel my disgust towards these aliens grow. They should be surging forward to their Astranaar, eager to avenge their dead. Instead, they shed worthless tears while they await their inevitable doom at the hands of the Warp. I feel the need to spit, my ire raised by such worthless beings.

A triumphant roar snaps my attention from the stunned aliens. I magnify the view my visor presents me. What I see turns my revulsion to hot, seething hatred. Stalking with malignant confidence, a daemon, taller and bulkier than the rest, directs its minions into the fray. I note its twisted visage, half hidden by a helm of archaic origins. Its muscular body is clad in purple plate, decorated with the bones of its enemies. A reptilian tail flicks back and forth lazily, rippling with mutated muscle.

The loathing in my twin hearts mounts to its crescendo. I remember the Purging of Caetrati Hive, where the streets ran slick with blood of good Imperial citizens. I remember the righteous rage that overtook us as we discovered the mountains of piled dead slaughtered with no apparent reason. I remember Brother Captain Sventius cutting a swathe through hordes of cultists to get to the daemons responsible this blasphemy. My odium bubbles and boils, threatening to overflow. Any lesser man would allow his hatred to consume him… to dictate his actions. But I am no mere man. I am a space marine, and my greatest weapon is the control I can exert on myself.

I reach back and clasp the handle of my combat knife. It slides away from its leather scabbard without a sound, three feet of edged admantium ending with a tapered point. I pause as I trace the grooves along its surface, envisioning the blood that would soon stain my blade. Behind the cold ceramite of my helm, my lips twist into a grim smile.

I spring past my xeno guides, jolting them from their reverie. The servos in my power armor whir into life, giving power to my motion, length to my stride. I encounter the first group of warp spawn barely seconds after my rush forward, their hideous faces filled with elation as they chase a panicked group of civilians. My blade descends tip first, plunging into an elongated skull with sickening ease. I rip the blade outwards, the serrated edges tearing apart flesh and bone in great spurts of polluted ichor. Before the others can react, I slay another of the daemons, thrusting my oversized dirk into its chest.

The rest hiss and sputter in their foul tongue, angered by my sudden appearance and the escape of their helpless prey. I make them pay for their hesitation.

* * *

"Keina! We have more wounded!" The sentinel commander turned to see a party of battered kaldorei stumbling towards their position.

"Quickly! Aid them!" her sisters needed no urging. They sprang from the makeshift barrier and herded the civilians towards safety. Keina was nonplussed. Her past experience with the Burning Legion taught her the demonic minions of Sargeras spared no one. The Legion's road to domination was littered with the charred remains of cities and the slaughtered bodies of the innocent. Yet, this was the fifth group of survivors that staggered their way through the still burning buildings of Astranaar. As much as Keina hated to admit it, there was no possible means these elves could have withstood such a formidable assault. Unless they had help.

"It's true! I swear! It came from the darkness! Clad in black metal! A god of death!" A panicked voice rose from the crowd of agitated refugees.

"The demons have traumatized you sir; it's only in your mind." The calm tone of a Druid of the Talon answered.

"No! I saw it! Red eyes burning with fire! It tore the satyrs apart like they were nothing! Oh Elune save me from what I witnessed!"

Keina cursed under her breath. The giant had surged past her and her sentinels, surprisingly swift for such its immense form. Keina had wanted to follow, but the giant had quickly disappeared into the flames, intent on who knows what.

The sentinel commander strode forward, and grasped the terrified elf by his shirt.

"You have seen the giant? White helm, black armor?" her voice is sharp and to the point.

"Y-Yes!"

"Where did you last see it?"

"The inn! The satyrs cornered our group in the inn! I-It appeared behind the demons! Oh Elune! The slaughter it inflicted!"

"You know of this strange being?" The druid looked at Keina with interest.

"Unfortunately, yes. My sentinels and I chanced upon it in Raynewood Retreat."

"What was it doing there?"

"I do not know for sure. When we spotted it, it seemed to have no other objective than combating the Legion." Keina replied, gesturing towards her squad as she did so.

"I take it you are going to look for this 'god of death'?"

"I am."

"Hmmm… Perhaps you won't mind me coming along?"

Keina regarded the druid quizzically. He was in his later years, a white beard billowing out from a thin chin.

"I would be honored lord druid." The old elf nodded with satisfaction before offering a wizened hand.

"Tanavar Oakshield."

* * *

The trio of daemons is afraid. I see it in their movements, the twitching of clawed hands, the occasional backwards glance. They have seen the bodies of their dark brethren, mutilated beyond recognition. They endeavor to avoid a similar fate. But their attempt is void, for I am stalking them from the shadows.

The Death Spectres have always taken a different view of the Codex Astartes. We realize that as guardians of humanity, we cannot allow ourselves to fall in fruitless and unproductive conflicts. We are not glory hounds such as the Imperial Fists, nor are we mindless zealots, like the Black Templars. You will never see us dying to the last man in defense of a useless fortress, or launching ourselves suicidally at enemy strong points. No, our way of combat is fluid, dynamic, changing as the situation changes. You will see us materializing behind enemy lines, launching devastating volleys of close range bolter fire into the surprised enemy. You will see us strike from angles thought impossible. You will see us attack silently and surgically, eliminating the resistance like cutting a tumor with a scalpel. This is as our primarch Corax dictates.

My arm wraps around the trailing daemon's neck. It has a second to look surprised, before I crush the warp filth to my chest, and drag it back into the darkness. I thrust my combat blade into its neck, the point puncturing a dozen arteries and the thing's jugular. The daemon grows limp. I allow it to drop.

A yell of alarm goes up as the other two realizes their companion is gone. They stand back to back, eyes scanning the burning buildings of the town. How ironic that they are wary of this place when minutes ago they were eagerly destroying it.

I burst from the alley. My blade sings its death song as it cleaves through the air. The daemon's head flops to the earth, spraying blood. The still standing body spasms, its nerve endings shot from the sudden removal of the brain. It collapses as I move towards the last warp spawn. My gauntlet smashes down on the daemon's skull, fingers digging deep into corrupted flesh just as it turns towards me. I lift the struggling thing from the ground, its hideous cries harsh and frightened.

"Know that this is the judgment of the Righteous," I hiss into its face.

I ram my knife up to its hilt into the thing's belly, basking in the shriek of pain that follows. I work my blade up, directing the weapon towards the ribcage and the vulnerable organs that lay within. I ignore the spray of viscous fluid that follows. The screech of the warp filth dies to a faint gurgle as its lungs and heart are torn apart by serrated admantium.

* * *

"Where was this god of death during the Third War?" Tanavar commented dryly as their little group passed another gaggle of satyr corpses.

"Hopefully suffering in hell where it belongs," one of the sentinels replied, flinching away from a disemboweled demon.

"Silence you two; your bickering will attract the Legion!" Mellia shushed in reprimand.

"Lady, judging by the amount of demon bodies I've seen through our little stroll, there won't be a Legion left." The druid quipped, almost cheerfully.

"The Burning Legion is countless, druid. We learned that the hard way." Keina responded dourly.

"Well, one can always hope."

A high pitched wail of sheer suffering echoed around the bend, causing even Tanavar to wince. The band of night elves paused, unsure and unwilling to proceed. It was the druid who acted first, elbowing his way through the milling sentinels.

"Come now young ones, don't be shy! I know it's polite to allow your elders to go first, but even that has limits you know!" the old shapeshifter waved.

Shrugging, the sentinels jogged after the druid. They skidded to a halt next to the old elf when they saw the black clad giant toss away the corpse of a freshly slain satyr like a ragdoll.

"And I thought I've seen everything…" whispered Tanavar.


	4. Astranaar in Flames II

_Dusel: It was certainly not my intention to make the night elves seem like scared puppies in their attitude towards the space marine. What I'm trying to illustrate is that the elves aren't frightened out of their wits by the astartes, but more stunned and awed. One of the things that draws me towards Space Marines in general in the 40k universe, is their psychological effect on friends and foes alike. The presence of an astartes will strike fear and despair on the enemy, while strengthening the resolve and spirit of his allies. What I tried to capture here is the sudden arrival of a nine foot tall superhuman shooting .75mm of exploding awesomeness. _

_Will of the Emperor: Thank you! Our marine will undoubtedly god-mode many things, but there will be challenges that await him! Otherwise, there won't be much of a plot!_

_Leafy8765: Thanks! In my mind, as of now, I'm pretty sure there will only be one space marine in this fiction. As for other races, I'm not going to tell you simply because it will give away the plot!_

_Soulless Reader: Thank you! As for the admantium thing, I'm not too sure either. I remember reading an article in White Dwarf featuring movie marines, and the article stated that the combat knife was made from admantium. _

Chapter 4

"And I thought I've seen everything."

I turn my attention from the daemon corpse I'd just haphazardly thrown away. The speaker is an old xeno, dressed in the furs and leathers of animals. His withered form sways like a sapling in the breeze, projecting an air of tranquil authority. My gaze shifts to the ones who are following him, sneering as I recognize the female alien warrior and her retinue. So, they've finally decided to stop wallowing in their self pity and fight for their right to survive. I quickly admonish myself. These were xenos. They knew not of virtues such as bravery and courage. I need not to be bothered by their lack of spine, when there was simply none to begin with.

The old alien gibbered something to its kin before walking towards me, smiling.

"Hello there! You speak Common right?"

My eyes narrow behind the slits of my visor. It dares slight the holy speech of humanity by calling it common? I long to snap its neck like a twig.

"Still your foul tongue! The honored language of Terra needs not to be defiled by the likes of you!" I spat, barely able to contain my rage.

To my surprise, the xeno takes the insult with a faint chuckle. Instead, he halts in front of me, still smiling. The others though, glare at me in anger.

"Hmmm… Black and white armor, glaring red eyes, imposing size… I can see why that poor elf thought you were a god of death in his panicked state. Tell me, does your heraldry mean anything?"

"Something your feeble mind would never understand xeno!" I bark.

"My, my, you really need to work on your manners."

I am about to retort when harsh inhumane laughter blasts from behind me. I whirl around, knife at the ready. The greater daemon steps maliciously through the smoldering ruins of a building, its shark toothed mouth spreading into a horrifying grin. It pauses to examine the body of a slain xeno, a commoner by the looks of its clothing, before gingerly placing a four clawed foot on the dead alien's chest. A deep throated chuckle escapes its mutated orifice as it exerts a sudden force to its leg, crushing the corpse into the ground and smearing the surrounding area with gore. The old xeno by my side snarls in fury at this act.

"Did that pain you elf? Seeing your brethren trodden into the ground like the ants they are?" the daemon gestures to the unrecognizable mess that was once a living, breathing creature.

A shrill war cry answers it as a volley of black fetched arrows zips past my head. The warp filth's mouth lifts upwards in a mask of scorn, battering away the projectiles with a burly forearm.

"How pitiful," the daemon mocks, "Given the resistance I've encountered here, I might as well head straight for Darnassus."

"We've defeated your kind before at Hyjal! We can do it again!" The female xeno growls as she bounds forward, followed by her entourage, fresh arrows drawn back against curved bows.

I feel my earlier revulsion towards these aliens recede a little. To stand against a greater daemon is an act of no small courage. I have seen veteran guardsmen lose their minds at the mere sight of anything daemonic, yet these xeno women that stand around me defy the Warp with steely resolve. I chastise myself once again. To feel admiration for the xeno is the path to heresy.

"You are mistaken weakling. Your alliance between the races lies fractured and forgotten. Your druid leaders lie comatose in the Emerald Dream. Hyjal was simply a delay in the inevitable… All will fall before the Burning Legion!" the warp thing waves grandiosely.

My enhanced eyesight spots movement shifting through the smoke and flames. I slam my knife back into its scabbard, and detach the boltgun I had earlier holstered at my side. My visor responds instantly, planting crosshairs and calibrating distances. I eject the spent sickle shaped magazine, and jam a new one into its place. The ammo count on the lower right of my HUD flashes as it registers a fresh clip of shells.

"I grow tired of our conversation… Come my wrathguards! Butcher these mortals in the name of Sargeras!"

A chorus of eager roars follows the greater daemon's command.

* * *

The wrathguard materialized from the smoke, impatient to spill the blood of the assembled kaldorei. Keina sighted down her bow and released, feeling a second of exultation as the arrow hissed towards one of the corrupted eredar. The demon roared as the shaft sank into its chest, narrowly missing the heart. Its pupils dilated as it focused on the sentinel leader, promising a slow and agonizing demise. Then, its head promptly disappeared in an explosion of liquefied bone and brain matter.

Keina didn't know what surprised her the most, the sudden, gruesome death of her adversary, or the deafening reports coming from the giant's strange weapon. Swiveling her head, the night elf watched with a combination of awe and revulsion as the barrels of the armament flashed with bright fire. Each successive blaze was accompanied by a metal bolt jerking back, expelling a spent cartridge and with a start; Keina realized the god was using a gun. Though the bulky, rectangular shape was a far cry from the long sleek barrels of the muskets the dwarves and humans used. The sentinel commander had a strong disliking for said guns, thinking them too crude compared to the bows the elves traditionally used. That and a musket is famously inaccurate.

The giant's weapon had no such problems, however. The colossal gun flung shells with pin point accuracy at the appearing wrathguard, blasting them off their feet as soon as they appeared. One screeched in agony as its chest erupts open, fountaining black blood and flayed flesh. Another spins backwards, its left shoulder a smoking ruin of destroyed muscle.

"Now this is more like it!" Tanavar grins, his earlier anger forgotten. The druid lifts a wrinkled hand and chants, pointing to a charging wrathguard with his other. The ground beneath the eredar shook and shuddered, causing the demon to pause and look down in bewilderment. Thick vines sprouted forth and immediately reached for their nearest target. The wrathguard howled in panic as the rapidly moving roots entwined its legs and constricted its movements. A shell from the giant quickly smashed into the trapped demon, blowing it in half.

"Enough of this! I, Varshokk the Impaler will send you to your pathetic Elune!" A massive sword, etched in red script appears in the wrathguard leader's hand.

"Purge the daemon!" the grating voice of the god answers, and brings his gun to bear, aiming for the advancing Legion.

"Your pathetic weapons will not harm a champion of Sargeras!"

The demon is fast. Charging on two reversed knee legs, it closes the distance easily, long, serpentine tail raised behind it for balance. The giant is faster. It springs forward, weapon drumming out a funeral beat. The four corrupted eredar following their leader are punched backwards, flailing wildly as their tortured existence ends in showers of their own blood and viscera. Varshokk swings its sword downwards, intent on bisecting the metal god in twain. The blade seems to shriek in ecstasy as it descends, eager to please its master. Keina, despite herself, cries out a warning.

The giant, without a flaw in its movement, sidesteps neatly as the sword hisses by it, the blade embeddening itself in caked dirt. The god continues forward, and drives a heavy shoulder into Varshokk's stomach. The demon champion staggers backwards; its breath sent hurtling out its lungs by the impact of the blow. The giant does not stop, and continues barreling forward, sending the wrathguard stumbling back clumsily. The inevitable happens, and Varshokk trips over its own feet, landing on its back spread eagled. A boot the size of Keina's head stomps hard on the demon's chest, pinning it in place.

"Die filth." The god's voice is tinged with vehemence.

"No! Wait!" Varshokk hisses in mixture of anguish and panic.

"Like all daemons, you and your ilk are craven at heart."

The armored foot begins to exert a crushing pressure.

"You are strong! The Legion can use you! Join us and --- Gaaackkkk!" Keina winces slightly as she hears the unmistakable sounds of bone breaking.

"You dare tempt me lackey of Chaos? Save your breath. You will need it to scream when the Emperor judges you in the afterlife." The boot is forced down harder.

"N-No! D-Don't!"

"How ironic that minutes ago you were in a similar situation with a dead alien at your feet. You did not show mercy to it. Why should I show mercy to you?" The giant punctuates these last words by grinding his foot into Varshokk's chest. Bits of already shattered bone are forced deep into the demon's internal organs, puncturing the vital points in dozens of places.

"Y-You will pay for this! The Burning Legion will avenge me!" The wrathguard gasps through its agony.

The giant answers with a metallic laugh.

"I will destroy your Legion, just like I did here. I will not rest until every last one of your warp tainted kind are bathed in the cleansing flames of the Emperor's Wrath."

The massive boot finally stomps down fully, mashing the demon's chest cavity into paste.

A moment of silence reigns. It does not last long. Tanavar steps forward, past the stunned sentinels.

"I take it from your actions here, you intend to combat the Burning Legion and their allies." Gone is the old druid's flippant attitude.

The black clad giant turns slowly from Varshokk's corpse. Its red eyes glares balefully at the elf.

"Aye."

To Keina's astonishment the wizened druid steps forward and extends a thin hand.

"Then we have a common purpose. I am Tanavar Oakshield of Darnassus."

The god regards the hand offered with interest. It tilts its head slightly sideways as if in deep thought. Then, it hesitantly reaches out, and clasps the druid's outstretched palm.

"Veteran Brother Avarian of the Death Spectres."


	5. Reprieve

_ArcherReborn2: Thanks! Brother Avarian will probably not receive any space marine reinforcements in this story. That doesn't mean he won't have allies though. You'll just have to continue reading to find out._

_Mattrocks: Thank you! I was hoping my POV for the space marine resembled something that was fluffwise correct for the 40k universe. I always read and reread my submissions, so hopefully you won't ever catch me grammar-wise!_

_Soulless reader: I tried to capture what a wrathguard would look like in reality in chapter 3, but it certainly is not my best effort, so sorry for that! As for the chainsword, come on now! Do you really think I'm going to leave out one of the astarte's iconic weapons from this fic? He'll receive his chainsword in a later chapter! I will also explain how Avarian arrived on Azeroth soon enough as well!_

_skipper_1337: Tanavar is a Druid of the Talon, based on WC III (even though my plotline occurs in WoW), so he can only morph into a bird. That doesn't mean of course that there won't be bear druids running around with our Space Marine hero chasing after them screaming "HERESY!!!"_

_Leafy8765: Well, from my experience, not all space marine chapters are radical such as the Black Templars, who pretty much kill anything that isn't a human. Some astartes chapters realize that negotiating with the more reasonable alien races such as the Eldar will aid the Imperium more than engaging in massive crusades that drain monumental amounts of resources and manpower._

_Weapon-VII: Keina didn't immediately understand that Avarian was human (more like superhuman) because of the situation. If for example, if you knew nothing about 40k, and suddenly out of nowhere a nine foot tall, acid spitting, ass kicking, metal superman dropped into your world demanding to know where the Imperium of Man was, you'd be more focused on the fact that this guy is a nine foot tall, acid spitting, ass kicking, metal superman rather than instantly guessing he's a human. I hope that makes sense!_

_Thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming!_

Chapter 5

The assembled xenos pull back as they see my mammoth form emerge from the smoke and flames of their town. My visor whirs as it inputs multiple targeting reticules on the aliens, zooming to focus on each individual. A myriad of faces greet me in return, betraying awe, surprise, and fear. Good. The Emperor's finest strikes terror into the hearts of humanity's enemies, shattering their resolve and crushing their courage. I would be remiss in my duties if my presence here did not instill this primal instinct. But, as I focus on another group of these xenos, I see a strange form of stoicism etched in their features, proclaiming their will to endure, to remain strong in the face of insurmountable odds. My mind boils in confusion. I do not know if I should respect these creatures for their courage or spite them for their audacity.

The old xeno clothed in leathers strides cheerfully to my side. It… he said they called themselves the kaldorei. Sensing my lack of comprehension, Tanavar had explained a more common designation for his kind as night elves. The wizened figure gibbers and gabbers in his alien tongue and gestures at me a few times to emphasize his point. The effect is immediate. The gathered xenos relax visibly, and a few smiles appear in the crowd. Some of them gather buckets, no doubt intent on quelling the fires of their Astranaar. Most come towards me. I frown behind my helmet. My finger itches towards the trigger of my bolter.

A cry of alarm emits from the throng of night elves. A small figure shoots forward, avoiding the hands that try to arrest its motion. It stumbles to a halt before my massive frame. I glare down and am greeted by the sight of a xeno child. Her purple tinged countenance is filled with innocent curiosity. I resist the urge to squash her like a bug.

A small, frail hand reaches out and grips the embossed skull on my leg plate. I am astounded. Hardened heretics have been put to flight by the mere sight of my black power armor, yet this alien whelp dare have the impudence to taint the sacred vestments of an astartes? I pray to my armor's machine spirit for forgiveness at the act of this heresy.

The servos in my suit whine as I kneel down. I intend to frighten this little elf away. She peeks into the red slits of my visor and then stares down, suitably chastened, playing with her green hair styled into a braid. I smile behind the cold mask of ceramite. The xenos should know their place among the hierarchy of the galaxy.

The night elf child shocks me to the very core at what she does next. Her arms reach out and enclose my neck, hands clasping together behind my head. She is hugging me. I rear back in astonishment, reaching my full height in an instant, with the xeno girl still attached. She in response, gives a delighted laugh, and scrabbles for purchase on my power armor. Her movements are lithe and graceful and before I can blink, she is perched on my shoulder, half covered by one of my massive pauldrons.

For the first time in my one hundred eighty six years of service to my chapter and to the Emperor, I am shocked beyond actions. I have fought the voracious tyranids. Faced the heretical tech-magiks of the tau. Stood steadfast against my traitorous brothers in the forms of Chaos. Battered to a standstill a mighty Waaagh of orks. Withstood the treacherous mind manipulations of the Eldar. Each of these foes lie broken and destroyed, their defeat and our victory recorded in the chapter annals. And yet, here I am, with a xeno child of diminutive stature making a mockery of my reputation as an astartes, and I find myself helpless.

A polite harrumph causes my attention to leave the child. A female night elf smiles nervously at me. It's the toddler's mother I realize. I bend slightly at the waist, lowering my chest so that the child is easier to access. The mother reaches out and coaxes the little xeno from her new favorite place on my shoulder. The girl pouts a little, before affirming to her parent's wishes, sliding into the mother's arms with slight regret. The female xeno holds her child lightly, scolding her in her alien language before turning to me.

"Thank you death god, for all you have done for us." She speaks in perfect Low Gothic.

The anger in me, which had all but dissipated when the xeno child had clambered aboard my armor, returns to me tenfold. Done for them? My cleansing of the daemons was a duty to humanity, to the Emperor. Who was this wench to think my actions were for their good? She should be thankful I didn't finish what the daemons had already begun, and purge this despicable town and her alien race as well.

"Yes. Thank you giant, for stopping the Legion."

"Ishnu-alah giant!"

"We will raise a monument of you once we rebuild our town!"

The elves are all gathered about me now, nodding their heads and flashing grateful smiles. I want to punch each and every one of them in the face.

My mind suddenly cries out in alarm, in pain. I feel the foulness of the warp sliding into my conscience, violating my areas of thought. I grit my teeth and utter the Litany of Protection under my breath, trying in vain to turn away the tendrils of the psyker. Soothing words enter my psyche, melodious and beautiful, but so dreadfully wrong.

"That was a touching scene, mon-keigh…"

* * *

"The current count is at two hundred sixteen satyrs dead and fourteen wrathguard as well as the champion, Varshakk." Mellia stated.

"You owe me a flask of bourbon, Keina." Tanavar chuckled.

"Fine, fine. Get over it druid." The sentinel commander rolled her eyes. The old shapeshifter had made a bet with her on just how many of the Legion this Avarian killed.

"I'm assuming the giant blew them away like he did the wrathguard?" Keina changed the subject in hopes of stopping Tanavar from gloating.

"No milady…"

"No?"

"Well, each satyr body showed massive lacerations and puncture wounds, which we assumed was the giant's blade work." Mellia shuddered slightly.

"Not only is he an excellent marksman, he is an avid swordsman as well! It just doesn't get any better than this!" Tanavar exclaimed happily.

Keina shot a sharp glare at the druid.

"You actually trust him?"

The old druid's face immediately lost its luster and turned serious.

"No. Not yet. But what choice do we have Keina? We haven't had an attack on Astranaar this large since the Third War. I've looked at the satyr bodies as well. They're from the three resident sects here in Ashenvale, the Bleakheart, the Felmusk, and the Xavian. The satyrs normally wage war on each other to obtain the best lands, but today, they joined together to attack us. This can only mean one thing."

Tanavar stared glumly down, wizened hand fidgeting with his long flowing beard, before turning once again to Keina.

"The Burning Legion has recovered from Hyjal, and is mounting another invasion on Azeroth."

The sentinel leader stared back at Tanavar in shock.

"But Archimonde---"

"Was not the only high lord of the Legion. His death, though a blow to our foes, is not enough to defeat them for good."

"Then we can send them back to their hellpits once again!" Mellia gestured with relish.

The druid shook his head sadly.

"Think sentinel. Think! It took all of our might, along with the humans and the orcs to defeat the Legion at Hyjal. Even then, Archimonde smashed his way through with contemptuous ease. It was only through the sacrifices of the wisps that enabled us our victory. That Varshokk was right I'm afraid. As of now, with our alliances in tatters, we simply do not have the strength to combat another demonic incursion."

"You speak as though we've already lost," Keina said sullenly.

"We have, in a manner of speaking. The Alliance and the Horde are split into schisms, with each faction seeking to dominate the others. Sargeras is no fool, and he has us where he wants us. But…"

"But?" both Keina and Mellia asked at the same time.

"We now have a secret weapon."

"The giant? The thing is a damned xenophobe!"

"Suspicious he may be towards us, but he understands the gravity of our situation. Besides," Tanavar's face split into a grin, "he hasn't shot any of us yet."

"Very funny druid. Still… what do we do now?"

"What we do is irrelevant Keina. It is all up to our new friend now. I will head off to Darnassus to speak with Lady Whisperwind on this matter. Bring Avarian with you once he comes back."

"To Darnassus?"

This time, it was the druid that rolled his eyes.

"Yes girl! Of course Darnassus! We need his help, and with him at our side, we have a chance of winning against the Legion."

Tanavar paused as he gazed at the ruins of Astranaar with deep sorrow.

"This god of death and our race's destiny is now entwined, Keina. He will be a beacon of hope to all of us once the Legion's dark hordes sweep over our world once again. Whether he will lead us down the path of glory or to the path of damnation, I still do not know."

Before Keina could reply, the druid was gone in a flash of green light, replaced by the flapping form of a crow. It cawed as it flew towards Teldrassil, world tree of the night elves.


	6. Revelations

_Dusel: Exactly my point! The Imperium is not opposed to all aliens, as long as they submit to the glory of humanity._

_Soulless reader: Astranaar is located in Ashenvale. I've never played as night elves either. My brief experience in WoW was that of a Forsaken Protection warrior._

_skipper_1337: The thing about daemons is that they can't be effectively destroyed. They can be banished for sure, but they'll always be back. But yes, if there is an assault once again on Azeroth, it will be Kil'Jaeden that leads it, not Sargeras himself. As for the time frame of this fanfic, I really can't say. My story will incorporate parts from the original WoW game as well as its expansions, the Burning Crusade and the Wrath of the Lich King. I have not decided if I'm going to add in Cataclysm yet. This fic will also not follow canon (Burning Crusade first then followed by Wrath of the Lich King)._

_Mattrocks: The gnomes will probably not get a hold of Avarian's armor. The amount of heresy in that act would probably be enough to kill an entire planet!_

_Leafy8765: The elves here won't be Exodites. They, for all intent and purposes, are a separate race from the eldar._

_Will of the Emperor: Heh, now if you put it that way… In any case, I'm glad it made you laugh. This fic will have more chapters like that, since it won't be all about combat. There will be humor, mystery, and *gasp* dare I say it? Romance?_

_Thanks to all the reviews! Please continue, it keeps my creative juices flowing!_

Chapter 6

The soles of my boots grind down into the moist soil as I plod onwards through the exotic woodlands of this world. I had told the night elves I was going to hunt down more daemons, stragglers from the attack on their Astranaar. They had nodded in eager agreement, with the same idiotic smiles on their faces. My true purpose though, was somewhat different. To find and destroy the eldar filth that dared taint my mind. I relished in the thought of putting a bolt through the foul alien's head, or sliding my knife in its ribs. I would make it pay for its warp blasted sorcery.

My visor suddenly focuses on a protrusion in the surrounding foliage. I realize it immediately by its cube shape and dark green color. The munitions crates standard throughout the Imperium. If it wasn't for my enhanced eyesight, I would have most likely missed it.

I stride forward, bolter cocked and ready. As I near, I realize that there are two instead of one ammunition crates. I nod in appreciation at the double headed eagle that adorns the lids. It is refreshing to see a symbol of the Imperium and of the Emperor in this strange world.

"So our little mon-keigh has found the gifts intended for it." The titillating voice flows into my mind like water.

"I will suffer no trespass witch! Come out so I may render judgment." I snarl in disgust.

"Ahhh… But where is the fun in that? Walk a little further and you may yet discover my presence." The words have a feminine tone in them. That doesn't bother me. What does is that they carry amusement. The bitch is toying with me.

"You and your kind will know the Emperor's Wrath!" The length of my stride increases as I start powering my way through the underbrush. Every instinct screams at me to hurry and destroy this Eldar. I am only too glad to obey.

The foliage around me unexpectedly disappears. I find myself in a clearing amid the plant life. My eyes are instantly drawn to the black, bulky frame that lies within. Short stubby wings jut out from its rectangular body. A pair of cylindrical jet exhausts projects themselves from the vehicle's back. Twin-linked assault cannons extend from the construct's belly, along with a heavy bolter hinged to the front of its passenger side. Land Speeder. Tornado variant.

"Enjoy this token of goodwill human… It was a significant pain to pull it through the webway."

I swing my bolter to shoulder height as a slight form strolled confidently from behind the vehicle. A cloak of white material surrounds her figure, billowing slightly as she continues her advance towards me. Blue wraithbone appears where her cape does not shroud, frail looking, yet strong physically. Twin curving spires issue from the back of the xeno's armor, denoting rank of some sort. A conical helm covers her head, tall and imposing. However, I note with faint suspicion, she carries no weapons. This is too easy, I think to myself.

My boltgun shudders in my hands as it roars, sending explosive shells at the witch.

"So tiresome mon-keigh." A wave of her hand buffets the bolts away, and sends them clattering to the ground.

"Silence alien! You and your kind do not deserve existence in the Emperor's galaxy!" I am tempted to spray another burst at the eldar, but I recognize what little effect it would do.

"How curious. I could say the same to your kind." She stops in front of me. "Yet, unlike your primitive species, we realize that all races have a part to play in this universe."

"Heresy! The words of a xeno have no merit! You eldar continuously raid our worlds and butcher our people!"

"Each craftworld is different human. We, the Iybraesil, realize that our race will never accomplish what we did in our golden age. It is only the fools of Biel-Tan and Saim-Hann that strive to recover what has already been lost to us forever." The eldar psyker's voice is tinged with deep sorrow. I realize with a start she is speaking to me vocally now.

"You realize mankind's divinity?" I intentionally provoke her, trying to find a weakness I can exploit.

"No race is divine space marine. The universe is fickle and cruel. Even your Imperium will one day lie grounded to dust by the cosmos, forgotten by all."

My lips curl in anger.

"Yet, that day is still some time away," the witch regards me intently, "but other powers conspire to end your empire prematurely."

"I know the enemies we must face alien!" I spat.

"Do you mon-keigh? I find that hard to believe." She steps gracefully past me, gazing into the surrounding forest.

"Do you know why you are here Avarian?" Even though my visage is protected by the blessed ceramite of my helmet, I still try to hide the shock on my face.

"Yes, I know your name space marine, along with many other things about you."

"Your warp tainted powers gave you my name when you stole into my mind!"

Faint laughter, tittering and light escapes from the Eldar.

"Yes… and no. While it is true that I can drag your knowledge from your mind, I have no need for it. You see, we have been watching you for a long time now."

"Lies!" I sputter in disbelief.

"Oh, it's quite true. You are an enigma to us, Avarian of the Death Spectres."

"Lies! All lies! I will not heed your words any longer!" I growl.

"But you must, for your Imperium's fate hangs in the balance." The eldar replies back cooly.

Before I can respond, she places a slender hand on my helmet. My surroundings swirl around me, dissolving and reappearing into scenes of terrible carnage. I see a battle field filled with corpses. The bodies of my battle brothers, their black clad forms broken and shattered. I see my homeworld burning as daemons materialize from the warp, slaughtering innocents in the millions. I see the Golden Throne of Terra, crumbling into ruins as the cradle of humanity rots away into nothing. I feel my face burn with tears. In an instant, I am back in the clearing, the Eldar's palm still gripping my head.

"No… No! What have you done to me witch-whore?"

"Nothing human. I merely showed you a vision of what is to come, if fate remains unchanged."

I break free from her grasp, and stagger back, disoriented.

"But what you do here, on this world, can change that fate."

"How?"

"This world is connected to the Warp. A daemonic portal has flickered back to life, bringing it the minions of the Burning Legion." Her words are strained, tired.

"I do not understand."

"Of course you don't mon-keigh. I will attempt to explain in as few words as possible so as not to strain your feeble mind."

I bristle at the insult.

"Eons ago, this world was invaded by a deity of Chaos. The kaldorei you have just met, know him as Sargeras. It was with supreme effort that they managed to banish him back to the Warp, albeit with great cost. But, as you know space marine, daemons have an annoying tendency to come back when you least expect it."

"And? I have fought daemons before. What makes this world different from the others?" I bark.

"Because human, Sargeras has not been in contact with the greater idols of Chaos for thousands of years. If the ruinous powers find their way to their long lost brother, they will no doubt strike a pact. Then---"

"Chaos with the Legion's aid will sweep across the Imperium, destroying all in their path." I finished, silently hoping I would never have to witness the thought.

"Very good mon-keigh. Perhaps your kind isn't as dull as we once thought."

I ignore the jibe.

"I still don't understand what this has to do with me."

"Why did you not kill the kaldorei as soon as they approached?" she answers my question with one of her own.

"That was my weakness! I will atone for it later."

"It is also your strength."

"The only good xeno is a dead xeno." I reply piously.

"Continue thinking that way, and your Imperium is as good as dead. The factions of this world need you, just as you need them to defeat the evils here. You must not allow the Alliance or the Horde to split, or Chaos will engulf us all. You must unite them. Only then, do you stand a chance against the darkness that looms overhead."

She advances towards me again, utterly without fear. A long limb reaches out and strokes the cheek part of my helmet.

"Do not fail me mon-keigh."

The eldar psyker vanishes in a web of warp tendrils, leaving me bewildered beyond words.

* * *

Keina managed not show her shock as the bulky vehicle descended from the skies in twin pillars of smoke. The giant, Avarian, was strapped into the driver's seat and was monitoring the various instruments that resided in the front panel of the machine. Keina ran forward, wondering how such a large contraption could stay hovering in the air, especially with the two enormous crates bound by vines to the vehicle's stubby wings.

"Lord Avarian!"

The god of death turned and regarded her from his seat.

"We need to head to Darnassus."

The sentinel commander expected the giant to disagree or to find an objection to her words. She was pleasantly surprised when Avarian nodded in compliance.

"Very well." His grating voice carried a degree of hesitation, as if under the spells of deep thought.

"There is a problem, however. I will need to guide you, but since the hippogryphs fled at the first sign of the Legion's attack, we will have to travel on foot."

The giant paused and tilted his head slightly.

"Get in."


	7. The Meeting in Darnassus

_Stupid Hermit: Thanks! I will endeavor to make it even more filled with win!_

_Todeswind: One of the main things I was concerned about when starting this fiction, was the relationship Avarian would have with the other characters. You are right of course, when you say there is a mistake when the space marine becomes "tolerant" to his companions. You can rest assured, our astartes will have no such weakness. In the end of this fic (which I hope won't be for a very long time), Avarian will no doubt respect the lifeforms on Azeroth, but his natural hatred for anything un-human will not fade. You also illuminated another point I have been currently working on, which is the "badassery" of the space marine when he is placed in an alternate universe. In this novel, the astartes will of course overcome his foes, but he will do so with the help of others, whether he likes it or not. _

_Mattrocks: Our hero might be softening, but he still won't go all mushy mushy! _

_Leafy8765: You'll have to read the next chapter to find out!_

_Soulless reader: Well, from what I gather, the b-word is pretty much still common thirty-eight thousand years in the future. It is not the Burning Legion alone that can destroy the Imperium. Remember that as of now, the balance between the Imperium and the forces of Chaos is pretty much dead set. However, all it takes is for Chaos to gain one small advantage (the Burning Legion) over the forces of order to cause the collapse of civilized humanity. _

_skipper_1337: Ulthwe may be more dangerous conceptually speaking, since their tampering with the fates has caused many losses to the Imperium, but they also help humanity as well (13__th__ Black Crusade). To many within the Emperor's domain, the more expansionistic of the elder will be more dangerous. We must also consider that Biel-Tan and Saim-Hann seek to displace human colonies with eldar ones, something the Imperium considers a very dire threat._

_Deviate Fish: Avarian is not a psyker, just a veteran marine in his chapter. As for his armor, well, from the fluff, a space marine's power suit shouldn't ever run out of juice. Heck, there's even a backpack generator thing attached to their back to prevent such a circumstance from happening. So, he's definitely not toast, and even without his armor or ammo, a space marine is still a formidable opponent._

Chapter 7

It could have been worse I reckon. The xeno could have vomited from the jerky movements of the Land Speeder, something the machine spirit in my armor would have adamantly opposed. She could have also been knocked unconscious from the massive force caused by the backlash of the wind, something I adamantly wanted. However, this Keina proved tougher than I expected. Besides a few surprised squeals from the alien due to turbulence, the trip was going flawlessly. But that didn't mean I liked it. The fact that I was forced to allow a xeno into the hover craft still galled me to no end.

The gargantuan form of a tree loomed near. Thick, twisting branches adorn the thing's massive trunk, culminating upwards into a broad canopy of leaves. Teldrassil, Keina called it. I wonder briefly how many canisters of promethium it will take to burn the wretched xeno roost down. My gaze shifts to the night elf seated beside me. Her eyes are closed tightly, no doubt due to the wind still buffeting her face. I slow the speeder to cruising velocity.

"We are here xeno." I struggle to keep the venom from my voice.

The elf's eyes peek open. She blinks repeatedly.

"That was fast."

"Of course. It's a Landspeeder after all," I emphasize the word 'speeder', "now, how do I enter your oversized tree fort?"

Keina shoots me a scathing glare. I find myself once again begrudgingly respecting this alien. I was used to the fear and authority we astartes project on our un-modified kin. Regular humans usually wilt before our might, and do whatever we order them to. Apparently this alien had some backbone. Foul, inhuman backbone, but backbone nevertheless.

"You will need to find the natural cove that resides near the base of Teldrassil. We call the settlement that has sprung in that place, Rut'theran Village. Our flight master is located there as well."

I don't bother with a reply, instead gunning the engines of the Landspeeder. The elf gives a startled yelp as we surge forward, our surroundings turning into blurs of color as the powerful turbines of the vehicle accelerates to unbelievable speeds. I pull to the left, and the hover craft responds instantly, like an extension of my own arm. We veer sharply, and circle around the giant tree. We travel halfway around the gargantuan trunk of Teldrassil before I spot the inlet, and steer us towards the place.

A group of night elves await our approach. I resist the urge to mash the firing stud of the Land Speeder's assault cannons. Instead, I guide the hover craft to a slow halt. The vehicle sputters as its engines die down, belching a plume of thick, black smoke. The assembled xenos step hesitantly forward, offering nervous smiles.

"Elune-Adore Lord Avarian. We welcome you to our lands." What I assume to be the senior member of the group greets me. She glances curiously at Keina still strapped in her belt-harness before shifting her gaze back to me.

"Lady Whisperwind has heard of your great deed, and will welcome you personally to our city."

"Her location?"

The night elf is taken back by the directness of my question.

"She awaits you at the Temple Gardens as well as the other envoys from the Alliance."

"Direction?" I attempt to, but cannot fully hide the impatience in my tone.

"If you head northwest of here, you will approach the entrance to our fair capitol. However, there is a question of---"

The last thing I hear from the alien is the word 'protocol' before I slam the throttle forward. My speeder gives a bellowing roar of approval and rushes forward, leaving the startled elves behind our wake.

* * *

Vareesa Suncharger watched with interest as the procession of Alliance diplomats meandered about the Temple Gardens with no apparent purpose. The envoys usually did not come out from their rooms unless it was an important occasion. The blood elf rogue pondered about this. In her few months stay in Darnassus, secreted away in the shadows; she had never seen such commotion before. All was usually quiet in this city, no excitement at all. Of course these were night elves. Their form of fun was to sit in a circle around a tree and talk to it.

A flicker of white robes appeared in the masses of ambassadors. Vareesa narrowed her eyes. It was Tyrande Whisperwind herself. The kaldorei leader greeted the Alliance representatives, before conferring with one of her sentinel captains. The blood elf wondered what possible matter could have brought the high priestess of Elune out from her meditations. A yell of alarm told her she would soon find out.

A black, box-like machine hurtled out of nowhere, belching twin trails of blue fire. It zipped past shocked bystanders with amazing dexterity, looping around obstacles with surprising grace for such an ugly mechanism. The vehicle grounded to a halt in front of the assembled envoys, and Vareesa suddenly saw the machine's form of locomotion was to hover in midair. The rogue mentally calculated how much gold this new information was worth to her masters, and realized with delight it would net her quite a sum.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the chuckling voice of an aged night elf druid.

"Well, Avarian, you certainly know how to make an entrance."

* * *

Blasphemous heathens! All of them! Filthy, tainted heretics! My mind rages on. My hand twitches towards the holstered boltgun at my side as I take in my surroundings. I had been lead into a place of worship. The Temple of the Moon they called it. Any temple that is not dedicated to the Emperor is a place of sacrilege to me. I pass a statue of a xeno woman with her hands raised in supplication. I feel the need to spit. Even their religion teaches them to be weak. If this was an Imperial city, the statue would have undoubtedly been a sister of battle, power sword raised high in defiance against all that threatens humanity.

"Thank you Sir Avarian for what you have done for us. Astranaar would have no doubt been lost to us forever and many of our people murdered by the Burning Legion."

I glare at the speaker with loathing. The high cleric of the aliens' damned religion. My conscience begs me to kill her. Just one bolt. Just one bolt detonating in her feeble body and this world would be freed from their foul conviction. Then, the eldar's words slip back into my mind, and I stay the hand that has already gripped the handle of my bolter.

"No doubt you have questions for us, as we do for you." The elf priest's robes shifts slightly as she gestures towards me.

"Yes, many questions indeed!" an excited squeak sounds from one of the envoys. My visor focuses on the instigator of the noise. I am greeted by a being the size of a ratling, albeit with less of a belly. Its bulbous nose twitches as it regards me with thrilled curiosity.

"Is it true that you're a real god?" Its voice reminds me of a fornicating tyranid gaunt.

"No. I am not. Though to your kind, I might as well be." The built in vox of my power armor does its job wonderfully, causing some of the diplomats to step back in fear.

"Ahhh! Care to explain?" It is unperturbed by my voice.

"I have been genetically enhanced." I reply simply.

"Enhanced? Is that true? Oh my! Oh the possibilities! You'll show us how you're modified right? Oh wait until I tell the gnomes back in Ironforge about this!"

My visor helpfully calculates how far I can punt the midget.

"Those questions can wait later Ambassador Fizzik," The high cleric rubs her forehead in consternation.

"Certainly Lady Whisperwind, but it would still benefit us greatly if we knew more about our honored guest." A man dressed lavishly speaks, nodding politely towards me in the process. I do not return the courtesy. It takes all of my strength to not shoot the man right then and there. He is a traitor to the Imperium, so far gone from the Golden Throne's light that nothing could ever redeem him. When his mortal life succumbs to death's embrace, he will be spurned by the Emperor and cast aside by those that once held him dear. This is the fate of those who willingly deal with the xeno.

"Very well. If you don't mind Sir Avarian?" The priestess Whisperwind asks.

"There are nineteen separate organs grafted into my body. Each one allows me to do something normal humans cannot." I growl.

"You are human then!" the xeno lover cries out, "No doubt Stormwind will make good use of your talents!"

My eyes narrow as the man complete these words. I'd rather die a thousand deaths than offer assistance to a traitor.

"Ach, human he may be, but the lad would be more useful in Ironforge." A figure that looks almost identical to a squat exclaims.

"Yes! Yes! Come to Ironforge! Oh the technology you possess is so wonderful and strange! We can come up with so many new inventions!"

My visor clicks as it sets a targeting solution on the pipsqueak. The temptation almost kills me.

"That technology would be better served on the Exodar. With his expertise we might be able to repair our ship and even cleanse the radiation from our isles."

A squid faced xeno strides forward, face tentacles bobbing gently as it spoke. I feel the need to retch.

"He appeared in our lands, so he will remain to help us."

"You claim him as if he was your property night elf."

"As I've said before, he would feel more at home in Stormwind. We have many problems that Lord Avarian can help us---"

"Your problems pale in comparison to ours. Nay, we dwarves need him more."

"The kaldorei people have bore the brunt of the Legion's attack. Our friend's actions have only assisted us so far. He will stay in Darnassus."

"Are you elves always so selfish? Since the crash of the Exodar, the Alliance has done little to help our plight. We deserve his assistance."

The diplomats are glaring daggers at each other, squabbling back and forth like hive gang juvies. My patience, which has already been worn to a thin strand of string, threatens to snap.

"It is not a matter of deserving my dear draenei, the fact of the matter is our realms are continuously being threatened. Why, just recently, innocent travelers have been dragged away to Blackfathom Deeps by cultists wearing the symbols of an eight pointed star."

I surge into the group of arguing envoys, bowling over any who aren't quick enough to get away. My massive gauntlet shoots out, and grasps the night elf's garments. I lift the startled xeno to eye level.

"Eight pointed star?" I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Y-Yes! They appear to be an offshoot of the Twilight Hammer cult."

I drop the elf unceremoniously to the temple floor.

"You are familiar with the Twilight Hammer clan?" the xeno leader, Whisperwind inquires.

"No. But I am unfortunately very familiar with the ruinous powers."

"The ruinous powers? Do you mean the old gods? Though a threat they may be, we have far deadlier foes to face." She cocks her head at me in puzzlement.

I sneer behind my helm.

"Then you are very much ignorant of the ways of this universe. If Chaos has already entrenched itself here, then your world will be beyond saving."

To her credit, Whisperwind remains calm.

"I do not doubt your words Sir Avarian. But our forces are taxed as it is. I can send a few sentinels to reinforce the patrols already covering that area, but I'm afraid that will be it."

"There is no need for that. I will go myself."

A murmur of approval spreads throughout the crowd. I catch a glimpse of Keina looking at me with respect. Tanavar isn't hard to miss either. The old elf is beaming like a fool at my words.

"You would do this? For us?" The cleric smiles haltingly.

"To destroy the followers of Chaos is our calling. Our duty as the Emperor's Finest."

"Then I thank you from the very bottom of my heart Sir Avarian." The elf leader bows her head to me.

I feel frustration well up in my twin hearts to join the anger. Damn these aliens! Do they not understand what I do here; I do for the Imperium and for mankind? Are they so simple-minded to think that my presence here was only to aid them?

"You trust this newcomer Tyrande?" a deafening voice blasts through my thoughts.

An imposing male elf stomps towards us, torso bared and muscular. I note the brief frown of irritation crease Whisperwind's otherwise faultless face.

"Yes I do Fandral. Sir Avarian has saved many of our kin at Astranaar. That is enough for me to believe in him."

"Indeed? Who knows what he hides behind his metal armor. He might even be a member of the Legion in disguise, to trick us into accepting him into our ranks." This Fandral glares at me with contempt.

"You will not dishonor our guests in such a manner archdruid!"

The male xeno gives a mocking bow in reply.

"That was not my intention Tyrande. I am just concerned regarding this new development."

"Your concerns are duly noted."

"Still, I think it would calm all of our fears, however small they are, if our… guest… would just show his face behind the mask he wears."

The crowd of xenos, heretics, and traitors turn to regard me with morbid anticipation. I force down the wave of displeasure that rises through my body. In any other circumstance, I would have already ripped the elf apart for daring to insult me. But, the situation here prevented me from doing so. Even as the pleasant thought of purging the filth around me begins to formulate, the elder witch's words once again flare back into my brain. Very well. If exposing my visage to these elves would further my goals here, I would do so without hesitation.

My gauntleted hands reach for my helm.

* * *

Keina Stormsong expected many things when the giant showed his face for the first time. She imagined the leering skull of a monstrous being, befitting for a god of death. Or the scarred features of a seasoned killer, evident in his actions at Astranaar. Even perhaps the light radiant countenance of a brave paladin, exposed for his actions against the Legion. She was not ready for the sight that greeted her.

The sentinel commander had seen enough humans to know immediately this Avarian's skin tone was wrong. It was ghostly white in color, almost albino. Keina reflected that if this giant was to stand neck deep in snow, most would mistake him for a mound of some sorts. She also knew enough about men to realize he was quite handsome for his kind. Chiseled features met her admiring gaze, perfect except for a few faint scars and a metal stud embedded above the god's right eyebrow. But what drew her attention the most, and every other woman's in the temple grounds as well, was the deep blue eyes. They shone with vigor and with purpose, and set in a pale white face, were like twin sapphires situated on a marble statue. Those were eyes that a girl could get lost in, Keina mused to herself.

"Are you quite satisfied?" Avarian's mouth barely moved as he hissed the words out.

"Yes." Fandral Staghelm nodded. The archdruid was too perturbed to say anything else.

"Good. Now tha---"

"Your face! It's so different! I've seen other humans before and their faces weren't as white as yours! Are you using makeup perhaps!?! This needs to be studied and…" the gnome ambassador's excited speech turns into a miserable gurgle as the giant's glare pierces him, eyes glinting with ice cold menace.

"The discolor of my skin is due to a mutation in our gene-seed, and is spread through my progenoid glands."

Keina did not understand a single word of that statement.

"However, that is not important as of now. Are there any more who would interrupt me?"

The eerie silence that follows is almost comical.

"As I was saying," Avarian continues, "I will go to your Blackfathom Deeps and obliterate the taint that lurks within. However, the auspex in my Landspeeder is not familiar with the layout of this land. I will need a guide."

"I will go." Keina is just as surprised as the others when her voice rings out. The god turns to stare at her. The sentinel commander tells herself the faint blush that appears on her face is from the humidity in the temperature.

"Excellent! Miss Stormsong is one our finest sentinels. She will prove valuable to you in your endeavors." Lady Whisperwind smiles graciously.

"We leave now then." Avarian's tone is deadpan.

"A point if I may my good lord," Tanavar shuffles forward, "Keina is undoubtedly tired from the events that have taken place today. Surely, if you allow her to rest today, she will be in better condition tomorrow to help you with your work."

The giant pauses as he considers these words. His eyes cloud slightly as though if conflicting emotions battled deep inside him. Then he speaks begrudgingly.

"Very well."

* * *

The first thing that came into Vareesa's mind as she studied the giant from her hidden vantage point was, "I'd mana tap that". His appearance was exotic to her, strong features set upon an alabaster background. And then of course, there were the eyes. The blood elf sighed dreamily. If only they were green like hers, he'd be a perfect match. She did prefer emeralds over sapphires after all.

Still, the rogue knew what she had to do. Once the sun settled, she would sneak into this Avarian's quarters, and pluck something from him to deliver to her masters. After all, the job comes first.


	8. The Real Situation

_ArcherReborn2: You'll have to keep on reading to find out!_

_Mattrocks: Yes they can. One of their organs, the __Catalepsean Node, allows for them to shut off separate areas of their brain while they rest. _

_Macross VF1: Thank you! You are very correct in your research towards the Imperium's attitude towards aliens in general. What I wanted to portray in this fiction, is that in order to further the Emperor's goals, our astartes would have to work with non-humans. He won't like it, but he knows that it is necessary._

_Soulless reader: ALL SPACE MARINES ARE BALD!!! Heh, just kidding. But yeah, most space marine artwork do depict them to be bald, no doubt due to the amount of wires attached to their skulls. So yeah, Avarian is bald. One of the things about Warcraft that many people don't catch, is the relative instability in the Alliance and the Horde. Factions on both sides have their own separate agenda, and the only reason why there are such alliances is due to the danger in Azeroth._

_Leafy8765: Thanks!_

_Thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming!_

Chapter 8

The boltgun is a weapon fit for a god. It is designed to terrify the opponent with its belching roars, hearkening back to the dawn of humanity, when mankind prostrated ourselves before the lightning throwing deities of old. It is devised to eject swift death from its barrel, reckoning back to when civilization first discovered the deadly effects of rocketry. It is made to obliterate and destroy the enemy with its explosive payload, heralding back to the bloody age of gunpowder. It is a symbol of humanity's practice of war. Crude, yet devastatingly effective. In the hands of the Adeptus Astartes, it is an instrument of divine wrath.

These thoughts cross my mind as I examine the contents of the first munitions crate. Bolter ammunition. Filled to the brim. I dig through them with eager hands. I see the round drum-shaped magazines filled with metal storm frag shells, the long, straight clips holding inferno and hellfire bolts, and the sickle-mags containing kraken penetrator as well as standard rounds.

I move to the other crate. I pull off the cover. A jump pack greets my gaze, its cylindrical, vectored engines painted dark black in my chapter's color. I notice the long, thick barrel of a meltagun next to the jump pack, as well as the two other weapons stacked neatly on top of each other. A plasma gun and a flamer. I am pleased with these implements of destruction.

My pleasure turns to unbridled enthusiasm as my gauntlet encloses the skull pommel on the last weapon. I pull the long sword-like mechanism out and bring it close to my face. I thumb the activation switch on its grip. It purrs in response. I admire the monomolecular teeth that drag themselves over the metal blade. I am content in my knowledge that my chainsword will soon feast on heretic flesh.

* * *

Keina told herself she put on her best dress as a sign of diplomacy for the giant, not to impress him. Her well proportioned form drifted gracefully towards the Temple Gardens, eliciting many backward glances from her male brethren as they pass. The sentinel commander was confused. She was never the kind to dally around in luxury. Her species had transcended beyond the point of such unneeded opulence, instead living simply and plainly attuned with nature. The kaldorei had learned their lesson ten thousand years ago, when extravagance nearly caused their downfall. Indeed, such lavishness was better suited for their high elf and blood elf kin, whose tastes bordered close to the outlandish. Yet, Keina felt her attire was inadequate, too meager to meet with Avarian. For the first time in her long life, she wished for something better than a plain, cotton spun garb.

She spotted the giant next to his vehicle, shifting through the contents of the twin, box-like pods he had brought with him. The night elf watched in morbid fascination as Avarian brought a rectangular device studded with what appeared to be metal teeth close to his helmet. A whine of motors followed, and the teeth began to churn in unison, slowly at first, but soon reaching a speed where they appeared to be a continuous blur of motion. Keina shuddered slightly. She knew now what this weapon was for.

The sentinel commander walked forward regardless. She hoped the god could hear her over the shriek of his instrument.

"Lord Avarian?"

The giant heard. He turned, regarding her with the red lenses of his helmet with detached interest. Keina was disappointed. She had hoped she could catch another glimpse of the face behind the cruel metal mask.

"Milady Tyrande wishes to speak to you in her private quarters."

The giant tilted his head slightly; a mannerism the night elf found strangely endearing, before answering.

"Is it necessary?" the voice is metallic, cold.

"I'm afraid so."

The metal god considers this. Then he nods, and attaches the teethed weapon to his belt.

"So be it."

"Excellent!" Keina beamed, "Let's head for the temple grounds immediately."

Avarian glanced uncertainly towards his equipment.

"They will be guarded by the sentinels. I have seen to it myself."

The god grunts in response.

* * *

Vareesa tailed the two figures from above as they strode towards the higher levels of Darnassus. The numerous trees the night elves had grown provided excellent cover for the rogue, allowing her to glide effortlessly in her pursuit, unknown to those below.

The blood elf was jealous. She was a woman as well, and knew the kaldorei female had other motives in mind behind the facade of a simple tour. She was a master at the art of seduction, and knew the innocence and the simplicity was what lured men first and foremost. After all, she had done it numerous times before. The night elf was doing everything right in form. But in practice…

The rogue sneered as she caught another glimpse of the two. The kaldorei woman's garments were just horrible. Just too plain for the occasion. A woman's form should be clothed in color that matched her. For Vareesa, that meant a black silk dress that enhanced her assets. These night elves simply did not understand the concepts of fashion, as evidenced by this woman's ugly white monstrosity of a garment.

Hence, Vareesa was jealous, but unworried.

* * *

"I thank you again Lord Avarian for your actions at Astranaar." Whisperwind's words are sincere, though troubled, "With events unfolding as they currently are, any further assistance you provide will be greatly appreciated."

My mind seethes at this statement. To help the alien was to walk the path of damnation.

"Tanavar tells me that the attack on our settlement was unprecedented in scope." My eyes flick to the old elf standing by his leader's side before settling back on the cleric. "I am forced to agree with him. The satyrs have always fought amongst their own kind, and to have them unite against us is a terrible portent to what is to come."

"Daemons are fickle and unpredictable beings. They only stop their bickering when stronger ones take control." I growl.

"Exactly so. This Varshokk you slew was an example of one of their leaders. An ancient race corrupted by the Burning Legion. Our sentinels have been reporting increasingly common sightings of such creatures, but we have been powerless to deal with them as of yet."

I feel the contempt literally oozing out of me.

"You see the enemy for what they are, twisted and defiled, yet you do nothing to curb their unworthy existence? I should have expected such weakness from xenos."

"It is a weakness we have no control over Lord Avarian. We are in the midst of many separate conflicts." Tanavar's voice is weary.

"You make excuses for your failures? Pitiful. The dangers you perceive are miniscule."

"Small they may be, but many they are. We must constantly send our reinforcements to Northrend to combat the undead hordes of the Scourge. Likewise, we must continuously bolster our forces in the Outland to prevent the Burning Legion from pouring forth into Azeroth. Even worse, we find our domains harassed daily by the agents of the Horde. As a result, in all our theatres of war, we can only enforce the status quo, but never fully gain an advantage."

"And your Alliance? Surely united, you could conquer your foe." I point out.

Whisperwind's face contorts slightly, but she hides it quickly. Tanavar has no such qualms, however. The old elf's face is bitter as he speaks.

"Our… Alliance... makes a mockery of what the word really means. I believe we should have named our coalition of factions 'Self Interest'. At least then, it would hold a modicum of truth."

"Indeed," Whisperwind smoothly takes over, "which is the reason why I asked for you in private and you see none of the ambassadors here. You have to realize the Alliance is at the point of splitting. The humans of Stormwind are too intent on the history of the Second War, and King Varian Wrynn too intent on the hatred in his heart. The dwarves of Ironforge dig into lands long forgotten, eager to portray themselves as the Titan's favored race. The gnomes follow the dwarves in their single minded purpose, clamoring again and again for the manpower and supplies to recover their capitol. The Draenei, newcomers though they are, seek only to rebuild their Exodar and convert us all to their religion of Light."

I snarl inwardly at the cleric's words. The eldar was right after all. In any circumstance I would have delighted in watching this gaggle of heretics, xenos, and traitors fight and die in their convoluted struggles for power. But today, their petty squabbling threatens the Imperium and mankind, something I would not abide so easily.

"Then I will… persuade them towards the right path." I hiss.

The two elves glance at each other, before breaking into relieved smiles.

"We were hoping you would say that. It is not common we have a hero who would so unselfishly help our cause," Whisperwind bows her head gratefully towards me.

"I do not do this for you or your kind xeno! My duty is to the Emperor and to the Imperium of Man!" I spat.

"Whether you like it or not, our purpose remains the same." Tanavar admonishes.

"Do not remind me of my heresy."

* * *

The giant was in a bad mood, Vareesa observed. That was good for her. Knowing men, they would most certainly sleep long and deep to forget their angers, which was perfect for her to waltz in and rifle through a few choice possessions. The blood elf watched in amusement as the god stomped away with the kaldorei female half-heartedly trying to stop him. That's no way to obtain a man, the rogue chided silently. They needed to be comforted when angry. Stroke a man's ego, and they're as good as yours.

Vareesa launched herself towards another branch, landing lightly and without sound, closer to the giant's vehicle and closer to the twin crates that held the marvelous wonders.

* * *

My occulobe sensed her when I was in the night elf temple, clad in black leather, her face masked by a cloth scarf. My visor had planted a crosshair almost immediately on her slight form, calculating a ninety eight percent chance of a successful kill. I ignored the suggestion and instead had focused on the proceeding argument between the numerous Alliance envoys.

Now, with the aid of the night, her stealthy form shifts forward towards the Land Speeder, alert and cautious. I am impressed with her skills. Every movement is carefully considered, carefully thought out. Long, thin ears quiver with every step as gloved hands clench twin daggers with confidence. Her stance is flexible, ready to bound away at the first sign of danger, and spring forward at the first symptom of weakness.

I remain motionless next to the hovercraft. I have sat in the same place for two hours, my brain cycling through senses to shut down and then reawaken. Sometimes I can hear her, but cannot see her. Other times, my enhanced vision picks her out from the surroundings, but my ears are unresponsive. This is how a space marine sleeps.

A dagger taps lightly on my shoulder. I stay in my current state. In a flash she is heading to my munitions crates. I follow her like a ghost, moving effortlessly from my sitting position. She is going through my boltgun magazines. My gauntlets reach for her slowly and without noise. She picks one of the heavy metal clips and studies it intently. My left arm envelops her waist while my right covers her mouth.

* * *

Vareesa fought down the urge to panic as a massive limb crushed her to the cool metal of the giant's breastplate. At the same time, a gauntlet planted itself over her mouth, preventing her from screaming quite effectively. The rogue went limp immediately. She knew the odds were stacked against her, and any struggle would potentially end in a gruesome and most painful death. Her thoughts were proven correct when the hiss of distorted static drifted into her ear.

"One wrong move, and I'll snap you in half." The tone is emotionless. Vareesa shuddered slightly, whether in fear or in delight, she knew not.

"You will explain your presence here. Then, I will decide whether you shall live or die."

The blood elf nodded slightly in the god's grasp. The tree-trunk like arms withdrew from her body. Vareesa cursed in Thalassian as she fell a good two feet to the ground, a testament to the giant's height. The blood elf rolled away at once from the death she had so narrowly avoided and leapt up, twin daggers dripping with poison. She shouldn't have bothered. The giant pointed a blade longer than her arm to her neck, the tip tickling soft flesh.

"Choose your next actions with great care," he stated rather unnecessarily.

Sighing, Vareesa dropped her blades unceremoniously and raised her hands in defeat.

"Rather brutal way of treating a lady isn't it?" she quipped.

"A xeno is a xeno, regardless of gender," the giant replied flatly.

"Still, we are relatively fragile compared to big men like you," her smile is filled with seductive promise.

The god ignores the statement and glares at her for a few seconds, faint clicks sounding from his helmet.

'You are not one of the races present earlier."

"I would certainly hope not! We sin'dorei were betrayed by the Alliance and---"

"That means you are Horde." The giant interrupts her, much to the blood elf's annoyance.

"They aren't much better either. Smelly degenerates. Especially the Forsaken."

"I offer you a deal alien. You will… enlighten me in regards to the history of the Horde and its relationship with the Alliance. In return, I will allow you to walk away unscathed."

"Hmmmm… An interesting arrangement. I will agree if we add a little stipulation to the contract."

"And what would that be?"

"I can reveal to you the strength and weaknesses of each faction and its leader."

The blood red slits on the giant's helmet glints at her dangerously.

"And your condition?"

Vareesa's smile is almost predatory.

"That I simply be allowed to accompany you."


	9. The Horror That Awaits

_Leafy8765: Imperial forces have worked with orks before, and certain clans, such as the Bloodaxes are eager to ally themselves with humans in order too obtain "humie" weapons. The astartes will no doubt hate the warcraft orcs, but he realizes that in order to accomplish a greater goal, he will have to work with them. As for the romance, you'll just have to read on to find out!_

_ArcherReborn2: Yes, there will be romance. It will be interesting to see how a space marine will react to an emotion many astartes regard as a weakness! _

_Emperor chronicler: There will be without a doubt more characters being introduced into the fiction, I have not decided on what race and gender per say, but rest assured they will be quite interesting! I have not thought out that far into the novel in regards to your question on gnomes producing Imperial weapons. So I actually don't know! If it serves well in the plot, then yes. If it doesn't, then no. As for Gnomeregan, our astartes will be very happy in cleansing what he will see as the work of Nurgle!_

_Souless reader: You'll have to read on to have your questions answered! One of the frustrating things about eldar, to me at least, is their inability to ally themselves with humanity. The Coven of Isha, though a good treaty, still does nothing when it comes to aiding each other military wise._

_Skipper 1337: Hmmm… It has much more potential than becoming a threesome! *Wink wink nudge nudge!_

_Left hand turn signal: Thanks!_

_Deviate Fish: Our astartes will overpower many things, but not all!_

_Thanks for the reviews everyone! _

Chapter 9

The Land Speeder, like all Standard Template Construct designs, is a pinnacle of human achievement with technology. It is ubiquitous among all chapters of Adeptus Astartes, valued highly for their ability to provide fast and heavy fire support where the situation demanded. It is also appreciated for its compatibility with a multitude of weapon systems, proved by the large range of variants for the vehicle. The standard Land Speeder carries only a single heavy bolter operated by the passenger, limiting its purpose to a general all around support unit. The Tornado variant mounts a twin-linked assault cannon under the nose, and hence is specialized at cutting through from anything wearing flak armor to the plasteel hulls of armored vehicles. The Typhoon is more proficient at neutralizing infantry with its two anti-personnel missile launchers, but understandably lacks the penetrating power of the Tornado's assault cannons. Rarer variants, such as the Storm, are also being utilized extensively, though their purpose is much more specialized. All in all, the Land Speeder was designed to be efficient and lethal.

In was not designed, however, to accommodate two quarrelling, xeno women who are hell bent on blaming the woes of their race upon each other.

"Clearly, your kind has never truly learned the lessons taught by the Great Sundering!" Keina hissed through clenched teeth.

"And your kind has never truly fathomed the gifts magic can give!" Vareesa, the xeno who attempted to sneak away with a few magazines of precious bolter shells yesterday, replies back angrily.

"What purpose does magic serve besides to corrupt?"

"Magic is a source of great power, as long as you can control it!"

"Where was this control when you Highborne destroyed our lands in the pursuit of power ten thousand years ago?!?"

"I'll have you know that many of the Highborne also fought against Sargeras and the Legion!"

"That may be so, but it does not alleviate the fact that magic is the sole root of our troubles!"

"Corrupted magic, yes! But not pure magic!"

"SHUT UP!!!" My roar of impatience startles the two elves to silence. My Lyman's ear is capable of filtering different sounds on a frequency level, and was the sole thing that kept me from going insane. However, even the organs that made me into an astartes have their limits, and the shouted words of the xenos were breaking into my concentration, showing just how heated their argument was.

"You two make more of a racket than a squad of Noise Marines," I grumble.

They stare at me blankly, clearly not understanding the metaphor I just made. I glare back at them, punctuating my words, before turning my attention back to controlling the Land Speeder. In that brief second, my augmented brain notes the differences between the two aliens, and deep in my conscience, I muse as I compare one with the other.

Both of them possess long ears, though less to an extent, with Vareesa. Whereas the night elf's ears are straight and thick, the blood elf's are delicately thin, fragile almost. That is to be expected for a species that split nearly ten millennia ago. From the brief history lesson Vareesa offered me, the ancestors of the kaldorei were the same as those of the sin'dorei, until a civil war erupted among the peasants and the nobles, caused by the arrival of the Chaos deity known as Sargeras. After the banishment of the warp god from their plane, the two factions split, the peasants remaining in their forests to toil their lands and the nobles leaving to find a place better suited for their decadent ways.

The disparity in their bodies was evidence of this schism in their history. Keina's form is tall and well muscled, well used to traversing the wilderness. Vareesa's figure is smaller, less pronounced, speaking of years of existence in civilized areas. The complexion of these elves also relates them to their environment. The night elf's face is purplish in color, wreathed with long blue hair, no doubt due to the lack of light in their dark forest homes. The blood elf's is almost human-like in appearance, blonde ponytail fluttering in the wind, unchanged from her forerunners.

I wonder if the Ordos Xenos will find this information interesting.

* * *

Keina was fuming. She was furious for one, a blood elf, descendant of the corrupted Highborne that caused the golden age of her people to end so abruptly, was strapped next to her in the giant's strange vehicle. Two, the sin'dorei felt no pang of guilt for the actions of the magically influenced, and had bickered with her on the subject, even going so far as to denounce the way of life of her people as "crude and filthy". Third, as much as Keina wanted to deny it, she felt a little resentful that the blood elf had interfered in what was supposed to be a mission between just Avarian and her.

The sentinel commander shot a look of reproach at the giant, hoping to convey to him her displeasure. She might as well just stared at a rock. Avarian's attention was focused solely on piloting the Land Speeder, and paid no heed to her annoyance. Keina sighed a little, settling back into the rather uncomfortable metal seat that she was forced to share. The only good part of this trip was when the god had chastised the blood elf, Vareesa she called herself, when they first met. The sin'dorei had balked at the sight of the night elf, and pouted to the giant, refusing to sit next to "a tree loving, bark worshipping amazon". Avarian had promptly pointed the barrels of his enormous gun at the blood elf, and offered to resolve the situation in another, albeit bloodier, fashion. The haste in which Vareesa jumped into the vehicle was quite amusing.

Keina squinted her eyes a little against the wind. They were nearing their destination, evidenced by the increasing number of ruins that passed by them. The sentinel captain's heart grew heavy at the sight. This place was formerly a glorious and beautiful temple dedicated to Elune, until the Sundering shattered the earth and plunged the shrine beneath the seas. Now, it is known as Blackfathom Deeps, a mockery of what it once was.

"We are here," Keina tried to erase the sorrow from her voice.

The giant gave no indication he heard, but the Land Speeder began to lose speed.

* * *

The smell of cordite fills the cavern as my bolter coughs another burst of shells into the daemons, their bodies erupting into gory flowers of shredded flesh and splintered bones. They don't get a chance to scream. The death that comes for them is quick and merciless. Before they realize the mist of blood in the air is their own, or the spurting viscera belong to them, the reaper's scythe has already struck them down.

I smile in satisfaction. This was what I was made for. Molded by the Emperor himself into the perfect, fighting machine. I am efficient, wasting no ammunition on already incapacitated opponents. I am terrifying, striding towards my foes like a god, their ineffective weapons clanging off my armor. I am deadly, spraying accurate shots that kill and maim with startling speed. This is it. No more lies and deceit. No more eldar trickery. I lose myself in the flow of battle.

A satyr leaps forward, a wicked scimitar raised high to strike. I blast it apart in midair, spraying the area around me with bloody chunks. Another shrieks a foul battle cry, thrusting a crude polearm towards my chest. An exploding round flings it from its feet, and sends its corpse tumbling away into a puddle of groundwater. The pool turns black from polluted ichor. A third daemon rushes toward my side, trying to get behind me, where it can use its twin daggers to what it hopes will be fatal effect. My fist backhands the satyr and crushes the notion as well as the thing's skull. It flies sideways, where the rocky wall of the cave arrests its motion with a sickening crunch.

My visor determines there are no more hostiles within the vicinity. How can there be when I've killed them all? I am disappointed. These foes were of no challenge. They break too easily. My boots stomp forward, grinding minor pebbles into dirt.

I am distracted by the lithe form of Vareesa, drifting through the bodies of the slaughtered satyrs as though if looking for something. She bends down and rifles through a small haversack, stained dark by its owner's life fluid. Her agile hands quickly pluck a few gold coins from the pack, before depositing it in her own bag fastened to her belt. I snarl behind my helm. Though it was quite a common custom for some of the wilder chapters, such as the Space Wolves, to take battlefield trophies, looting the remains of the foe is something that is frowned upon.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask, my grating voice echoing through the long cavern.

The blood elf peers at me, her flashing green eyes defiant.

"Gold is of no use to the dead. I don't think they'll mind if I… borrow their wealth for the time being." Her lips part into a smile. "Besides, the night elf is doing it too."

My glance turns to Keina, who had just finished going over a corpse missing a head. Unlike the sin'dorei, she refuses to meet my stare, obviously ashamed of her actions. Instead, she shoots Vareesa a nasty glare before answering.

"The gold will help the Alliance war effort."

I am about to reply when fierce agony surges through my side. My brain acts immediately, shutting down the suffering nerves and denying the pain a further hold into my conscience. Numbness settles in, and I roar in fury at being blindsided by such unworthy enemies.

The satyr gives a squeak of dismay as my visor focuses on the source of my rage. It is smaller than its warp tainted kin, but such frailty serves a purpose as purple orbs of chaotic energies gather at its palms. I do not allow the demon to proceed further in its dark magiks. Three shells from my bolter reduces the thing to an unpleasant stain on a nearby wall.

"We continue on," I scowl.

* * *

Power was what led the fallen Highborne into summoning Sargeras, hoping the deity would grant them more. Power was what led the disenchanted high elves to their city of Silvermoon, where they could dabble into the arcane for more. Power was what Vareesa and her people continue to search for, in the hopes that their addiction to fel magic could somehow be alleviated.

Power radiated from the giant in such magnitude that the blood elf almost fainted with ecstasy. Everything about him was wreathed in power. They way he walked, the way he talked, the way he fought, everything. Even the way he took pain, when the satyr caster lanced a shadow bolt into his side. The god had ignored it as if though it was pinprick. This was power, unrefined and unaltered, terrible and alluring in its raw form.

Vareesa wanted it. She wanted it for herself and noone else. She would make this man her own, so everyday she could bask in the magnificence of his power. She would make this giant serve her, so she could gain his power as her own. She would make this god love her, so she would forever have him and his power by her side.

She would do anything for this power.

* * *

The first thing that hits us as we enter the circular room is the stench. Decayed flesh. Weeks old. The two elves besides me are trying hard not to retch. I don't blame them. My visor immediately picks up the carcasses of the strange reptilian creatures that are sprawled intermittently around the area. They are almost as tall as me, short stubby legs supporting a massive body encased in a bony shell. I note with unease that many of the bodies have gaping wounds that can only be caused by the tearing actions of a teeth-filled maw.

"The great domed beasts of the Veiled Sea," Keina whispered, "they are peaceful creatures… What horrors have happened here?"

A faint disturbance among the corpses alerts me.

"I think we're about to find out," I reply grimly.

The roar the beast gives is pained. It rears its ugly head, showing sunken eyes and flaring nostrils. Its scales are a dull orange color. I cannot tell for sure due to the clotted blood that adorns its bulky frame. It opens its mouth, revealing teeth as long and thick as one of my fingers. I realize with sudden disgust how the wounds were caused on its dead kindred.

"Ghamoo-ra! He is a kind beast and has never harmed us kaldorei before!" The night elf is almost in tears. I grimace. There is no place for weakness here.

"I think your definition of kind and its aren't quite the same," Vareesa nervously reaches for her sheathed weapons.

Ghamoo-ra takes a tottering step towards us, bellowing deeply. Its eyes focus on me, and I am overwhelmed in what I see. The irises expand back and forth rapidly, showing madness and blind hate. At the same time, I sense the sadness in them. It knows what it has become. Those same eyes beg me for release from its living torment.

My boltgun thunders into life, matching the brute's roars in volume. Rocket-propelled shells streak forward, slamming into the monster's hardened exoskeleton. Diamantine tipped, they penetrate the protective bone structure before detonating in flashes of exploding shrapnel. Ghamoo-ra screams in pain as smoking craters blossom into existence along its corrupted form. The last shell rips into the creature's exposed chest, and shreds its heart. Those intelligent, reptilian eyes flicker towards me one last time. They thank me, before death's embrace causes the lids to close.

I stride towards the freshly slain beast.

"Why has this happened? By Elune, is nothing sacred?" Keina asks in distraught breaths.

My gauntleted hands reach for the creature's head. They stop when my visor focuses on the unclean symbol that is branded to the back of Ghamoo-ra's skull.

"Nothing is sacred anymore, xeno." I sigh as I turn my gaze away from the eight pointed star of Chaos.


	10. Descent into Madness

_Peanuckle: Thank you! I'm not too sure that all marines are rendered impotent. I know for sure that their enhancement and subsequent training suppresses their sexual urges, so any advances on our hero will be of course be unanswered. Yet… The full relationship between Chaos and the Burning Legion will be revealed soon, very soon in fact! I also agree with you that Avarian should be the only 40k character. However, I plan on adding one more in future chapters, but that won't be until later. The religion issue will also be addressed. How? Well, you'll just have to read on!_

_Leafy8765: You'll find out very soon!_

_Deviate Fish: We all know astartes are good with women! (Except for heretic women of course)_

_Stupid Hermit: Thanks!_

_Soulless Reader: You bring up an excellent point. How will Avarian respond to a woman's advances? To a space marine, duty, loyalty, honor, are all tenants of their belief. But love is something entirely different. I am most eager to portray how our hero reacts._

_Emperor chronicler: I have not played much of Warcraft III, so I can't say. But if that is the case, then if fits into the story perfectly! Regarding your question of technology, I'm sorry to say I can't give you a definite answer. I know roughly where the plot will head, but I haven't buffed out all of the details. There might be, and there might not be, it just depends on where they story leads._

_skipper_1337: Hoped I answered your question in this chapter!_

_Thanks for all the reviews! Please continue!_

Chapter 10

My visor flashes a warning rune as I feel the blood in my veins freezing. My body temperature drops, causing my movements to become sluggish and listless. The haemastamen planted in my main blood vessel responds at once, altering the make up of my life fluid to combat this sudden challenge. My secondary heart works in conjunction, pumping the new blood into my extremities, and washing away the slush that has formed in my capillaries. Still, this takes time. And in these precious few seconds, I am vulnerable. The trident plunges towards my chest, three sharp pronged tips gleaming madly in the dim light. But not to these mutant serpent men.

The chainsword shrieks into life, monomolecular teeth whirring eagerly for the taste of flesh and sinew. I do not disappoint. My bolter hand batters away the trident with ease, jarring the weapon away from its malformed owner. I enjoy the look of utter surprise on the snake man's elongated face, before my chainsword bites deep into its side. Its screech of pain cannot be heard over the buzzing of rapidly churning blades.

The skin is first to give in, scattering bright blue scales as it tears. Muscles, thick and strong, are next, jerking and twitching as they are sheared brutally through. The vital organs follow, liver, stomach, intestines, all rupturing into messes of destroyed tissue and spilled viscera. The spine is last, splintering into broken pieces of bone as the chainsword finishes its grisly work. I continue the stroke, my still hissing weapon exploding outward in a spray of ichor from the monstrosity's other side. It topples over, torso backwards, lower body forward. The stench from the fresh corpse reminds me of dead fish.

The blinking rune on my HUD disappears. My now smooth movements confirm with its conclusion. The chill is gone from my veins. I thank the Emperor for granting me such a magnificent body by decapitating another snake man. Only through sword and fire can I truly praise him.

Arrows fly past me in rapid succession. Keina's aim is accurate, precise. Mutants fall back, shafts sinking deep into corrupted flesh. My boltgun accompanies the night elf's volley, spitting out mass-reactive rounds into slithering forms. They vanish in eruptions of shredded gore.

A black and red blur moves past me. Vareesa's blade work is elegant, finesse. Serpent men flail wildly, expiring as daggers cut and puncture their tainted skin. My chainblade escorts the blood elf's dance of death, ripping apart wriggling frames in fountains of spurting blood.

I take advantage of the substantial decline in the mutant's numbers. The servos in my power armor whine as I power myself forward, barreling over the snake men who dare impede my progress. I see the she-witch that struck me with a spear of hoarfrost earlier. It commands the other misshapen filth. For that reason, it becomes my primary target.

I club the last serpent man in the face with the guard of my chainsword, dashing out its brains with a nauseating crunch. As it reels back, a lance of condensed water streaks towards me, trailing vapor. I have time to shift my body, shoulder guard in front, before the ice bolt impacts. The rune once again flares in my visor as my pauldron is coated with a thin layer of frost. The arm holding my boltgun juts uselessly. It will take another few seconds for my enhanced organs to displace the affected blood vessels. It doesn't matter to me. I have the other arm, and it is holding a far more lethal weapon.

My motion continues, chainblade held in front of me, tip first. The she-snake panics, trying desperately to conjure more of her foul magiks. My charge hits home before she can utter a word. Whirring mechanical teeth bury themselves into the mutant's vivid green flesh, cackling wildly as they roil away soft tissues and hardened muscles alike. A long, slimy tail buffets my armor, leaving gelatinous trails of goo pooling on my sacred adornments. The revulsion I feel fuels my sword arm, and I slam the chainsword up to its hilt into the she-serpent's body. The tail continues its wild blows in an even more fervent manner. I ignore the creature's feral thrashing. Death has come to claim what is rightfully his. Such struggles are futile before his scythe.

The witch snake's movements finally still, its voice escaping with a whispering gurgle before the eyes finally glaze over. I detach my weapon from its corpse with a flick of my wrist, the hissing blades seemingly upset over the sudden lack of victims. I promise it and to myself there will be far more filth to cleanse in this winding cavern.

* * *

The naga's body is too destroyed for Keina's work. The sentinel commander frowned slightly, and picked a few intact scales from the corpse. The giant was too thorough in battle, not that the night elf blamed him for it. She just wished he was a little less zealous in combat, for his own good of course. That, and leaving bodies in such a state were of tremendous waste to leatherworkers like her. Naga scales were very resilient, and many of her sentinels wore suits of mail made by such materials. She would be lucky if she could make a full chest piece with such a scant harvest.

Keina's eyes glanced over to the blood elf. The sin'dorei was plundering Lady Sarevess's body with reckless abandon. The night elf captain shook her head slightly. How could the giant trust in a corrupted being such as her? Surely Avarian could tell the difference between the misguiding, treacherous ways of the descendants of the Highborne and the good, honest ways of the kaldorei?

A booming voice tore her from her thoughts.

"You are skinning these serpent-men." It was a question and a statement at the same time.

Keina was once again reminded on just how big this man was as his massive frame loomed over her.

"Yes. The naga's scales make excellent suits of armor for our warriors."

"Interesting." The dead-pan tone of his words spoke otherwise.

A shout of joy caused both of them to turn. Vareesa held a golden medallion up for them to see, her green eyes twinkling with delight. In one swift move, the blood elf palmed the amulet into one of her many bags before smiling sweetly at the god.

"This adventure is turning out to be quite profitable," her words oozed with self satisfaction.

If the giant disapproved, he gave no indication. Instead, he stomped away, forcing both elves to quicken their pace to follow.

* * *

The further I descend into this lair of heresy, the more I feel my disgust as well as my curiosity grow. So far this Blackfathom Deeps has spawned foul satyrs, misshapen serpent-men, and a giant Chaos enslaved beast. I can only wonder what other horrors this place can throw at an angel of death.

Hence, I was not surprised when a veritable horde of amphibious creatures greeted my sight as we rounded the corner. Stooped forms swiveled towards our approach, webbed hands clutching primitive harpoons. Eyes covered with protective film glared balefully at us, taking in our features with rapacious motions. Bright red spines dotted these aliens's bent backs, a form of decoration or protection, Emperor alone knows.

"Murlocs!" Vareesa snarls in repugnance.

Her recognition to these mutants sparked a chorus of battle cries from the amphibian half-men. A shrill, mumbling sound emits from their throats, and I am reminded of an ogryn attempting to sing the hymns of the Ecclesiarchy. Beneath my helm, one of my eyebrows arches into an inquisitive quirk. These creatures were almost amusing in their mannerisms.

I scold myself for my negligence towards these amphibian-men. They were still deviants from the Emperor's vision of holy humanity. Purging these fiends, no matter how entertaining they might be, would be doing His work.

A plethora of thrown spears confirms my reasoning. They clatter off my blessed ceramite like steel rain. I note with a wave of displeasure that the two elves have placed themselves behind my power armored frame, undoubtedly hoping use me as a shield against the projectiles. Damned if I would allow them to sully my true purpose.

The firing pin on my bolter shifts back and forth at a record rate, ejecting spent shell casings as I return the murlocs's volley with my own. Frail bodies, guarded by only a thin layer of water-soaked skin, explode spectacularly in sprays of gore. Our jagged, grey surroundings are painted a different color as blood and viscera fountain in a multitude of directions.

A faint click alerts me to the last round in the magazine, just as the last of the amphibian mutants rushes forward. This one is bigger than the others, its spines more prominent. Streaks of orange embellish its viscous hide. It wields two curved swords; one notched and well used the other immaculate and glowing a faint blue.

My boltgun gives a thunderous roar as the shell is flung out of the barrel from kinetic energy. The rocket-propellant immediately kicks in, boosting the shot to near unthinkable speeds. Gyrostabilizers etched around the round's head causes it to spiral conically, directing it towards the victim with unerring accuracy. The diamantine tip, designed to penetrate armor, moves easily through the murloc's left eye socket. The mass-reactive fuse detonates just as the round punches into the soft, feeble folds of the cranium.

I smoothly detach the now empty clip just as the amphibian man's head turns into an expanding sphere of shattered bone chips and minced brain matter. I slip a fresh sickle-mag into my weapon, and pull the firing pin back. Let the enemies of humanity come. I am only too glad to end their degenerate lives at the barrel of my bolter and the end of my chainsword.

* * *

Killing is a form of art. To Vareesa, it was also a form of expression. When she was angry, her victim fell butchered like cattle. When she was content, her target died quickly and without pain. When she was excited, her prey was often unrecognizable due to the elegant lacerations caused by her blades. Such was the way of rogues, assassins, and spies. Skill before strength.

This giant took art to a whole new level. Whether at the shrieking spike-like teeth of his sword, or at the booming bellows of his gun, his foes died in such ways the blood elf had all but thought impossible. If both of them were painters, Vareesa would be known for a few of her best works, while Avarian would produce masterpieces beyond compare with each stroke. The difference between them was huge… gargantuan… perhaps even unfathomable. He was a god, black clad in impenetrable armor, and terrifying in might and power.

Terrifying, yes, but also alluring… attractive… desirable. The sin'dorei picked her way through the spilled carnage. She would need a way to get on this man's good side. Slowly work her way to his heart. With time, and with some careful planning on her part, this giant would be her possession forever.

The blood elf paused at the murloc champion's corpse. Its name was Gelihast, a long known foe of the kaldorei. Vareesa could care less about the ugly frog man. Her fel green eyes were instead drawn to the dull, pulsating blue of the sword still clenched tightly in a webbed hand. The rogue bent down, and eagerly pried the weapon from the filthy thing's grasp. A magic imbued sword, and not only that, one of the rarer ones as well.

Ever since the dawn of times, magic users have enchanted instruments of war to aid their allies. Some of them were immensely powerful, unique and nigh-unattainable. These weapons and armor emitted a faint purplish hue before they were soul bound, whereas the aura disappeared to show ownership. The next step down were those that glowed blue, less powerful, but still formidable in their own rights. She was lucky to obtain such a weapon, as many adventurers could go their whole lifetimes without seeing one.

Vareesa admired the curved blade, inhaling the magical energies that surrounded the sword with pleasure. She could easily steal the mana from the weapon for her own, but that would have been an unparallel misuse of such a resource. Instead, she would use her new found object for a much more beneficial goal.

"My lord Avarian," her words are coy, submissive.

The giant finishes examining a corpse, and looks at her.

"I have found a suitable weapon for you."

Her hands held the magic infused blade towards the god in feigned supplication. A massive armored hand seized the hilt of the sword and brought it to the bone white helm's level, where red tear-shaped slits examined the weapon with mechanical precision. Much to Vareesa's vexation, the giant promptly handed the sword to the night elf standing beside him.

"Xeno Keina. You lack a decent close quarters weapon." Avarian's words are detached, indifferent.

The kaldorei stuttered a thank you. She too, knew the value of such a rare item. Vareesa ground her teeth in frustration as she watched the magical tinge of the sword fade as it was soul bound to the night elf. She might as well just have sucked the magical energies for her own use if she had known this would have occurred. The superior, gloating look Keina gave her wasn't helping either.

The blood elf calmed herself with difficulty. So this giant would be a challenge for her to seduce. No matter. She liked it when they fought.

* * *

I hear their undulating voices echoing through the long winding passage. Dark, damning words uttered without consequence. Complex, flowing sentences that would cause an Emperor-fearing man to sink into insanity. A ritual of summoning. Memories flash through my head. The Culling of Vlorn, where the heretics called forth a greater daemon of Khorne to ravage our battle lines. The Burning of Thousands, where only through the sudden arrival of the Grey Knights and their massed incinerators were we capable of defeating the innumerable ranks of plaguebearers. The Fulverasis Affair, where the arch-enemy sacrificed cultists and good Imperial citizens alike to bring forth terrible daemonic entities that drove entire regiments of guardsmen mad.

My pace turns into a galloping run. The two elves cry out in surprise as they are outdistanced by my loping strides. I reach for the flamer strapped to my back. I can only hope I am not too late.


	11. The Foe Realized

_Charles Bhepin: Thank you for your criticisms! I agree with you in that both Vareesa and Keina need some more "fleshing out" if you will. I promise that both characters will receive more depth in later chapters. What I want this fic to be, is mainly the point of view of our astartes main character. Understandably, the first chapters will be regarding his actions and his view points. Once this is done, we will get a closer look at the other characters as well as the introduction of new companions to Avarian. In response to why Avarian is here, I intend to reveal that as well, perhaps even in the next chapter! You bring another good point on why our astartes has not concluded for example the similar characteristics between the elves and eldar. In my POV, while a night elf and a blood elf look alike to the eldar, there are also enough differences for Avarian to know immediately these aren't the xenos he's used to fighting. I have also referenced that the dwarf ambassador appeared to be a squat to Avarian, as well as the gnome ambassador resembling a ratling._

_Mephisteron: I had no idea the Death Spectres could use nemesis weaponry… In any case, I'm basing the chapter off the 13__th__ Black Crusade, in which the chapter made quite a crucial showing. I will also reference the Ghoul Stars in this fic in later chapters._

_Blandsauce: Indeed! The mutations caused by unstable geneseed are many and diverse, especially that of the sons of Corax. The Raven Guard are known to have quite a problem with attaining pure geneseed, due to the massive cloning their primarch initiated during the Horus Heresy. _

_Obsessed Nuker: I know astartes will never have sex in their existence. However, I do not know for sure if they are sterile or not. The forums and websites I have visited conclude that while space marines won't have sex due to their training, they do not mention if all astartes are rendered impotent during their transformation._

_Emperor chronicler: Thank you! Our hero won't be dying anytime soon you can be sure of that!_

_The Q Continuum: Thanks! I wanted this fiction to incorporate humor as well as awesome fighting scenes! Of course, there are also different genres I also want to add, but that will be later!_

_Skipper_1337: I actually had to think pretty hard about how to incorporate loot into the story. I am quite pleased with the results! Thanks again!_

_Peanuckle: Our hero won't face greater daemons of Chaos until later in the story, hopefully when he obtains more aid. Thank you for your review!_

_Weapon-VII: A flamer is a special weapon in 40k tabletop rules, so it would be quite realistic for Avarian to carry one along with his bolter. After all, a single guardsman is capable of lifting a flamer, so it would be no surprise that our hero can carry multiple weapons._

_**In response to the questions regarding Avarian's ability to procreate, I must say I have not thought that far into the story. Rest assured though, even if I decide our astartes can reproduce, he won't go on a wild boning spree! (Though some of you might be disappointed at that!)**_

_**Thanks for the Reviews! Keep them coming!**_

Chapter 11

Twilight Lord Kelris was an ambitious orc. Disillusioned with the new shamanistic ways of his Durotar kin, he had dwelled deep into dark and forbidden knowledge. In return, the young orc had been ostracized by those he thought he loved, and cast out of Orgrimmar. Kelris swore before the guards who had forced him out that he would one day return and tear this place asunder. They laughed at him. Alone and unloved, he wandered throughout Kalimdor, rage and hatred festering in his heart. This did not go unnoticed. All too soon, whispers flowed into his mind and visions haunted his dreams. They promised him power beyond reasoning, a way for him to sate his vengeance against those that had so easily forsaken him. The orc willingly accepted, and swore a pact to serve the true god of Azeroth, C'Thun.

But not was all well. The old god was a fickle being. Kelris had been its favorite for only a few months before it moved on to another aspiring young orc, Jedoga. Seething, the Twilight Lord had no choice but to accept the assignment that led him to the coasts of Ashenvale, to Blackfathom Deeps.

In retrospect, Kelris should probably thank the gooey piece of shit for sending him here. As he and his cultists prepared to descend into the cavern, they were stopped by a sorcerer clad in crimson armor. Clutching a tall, twisted staff, the Enlightened One bade them to sit and to listen. Disenchanted at C'Thun, the orc was only too keen to cast off the veil that the old god had placed over him. He was not disappointed. They listened with rapt attention as the sorcerer spoke of the pantheon of the four great gods of the Warp, dwarfing the one Kelris had recently served. In demonstration, the red clad messiah had summoned forth a gargantuan, three headed beast. Aku'mai, it was called. The Twilight Lord and his minions had promptly discarded their loyalty to C'Thun and branded the mark of the eight pointed star on their bodies.

Unlike the old god, the ruinous powers were quick to dole out gifts to their new followers. Bronzed muscles expanded from previously scrawny bodies, granted by Khorne, the battle-hungry. Decaying immortality, pox-filled and rotten, spawned on healthy flesh, bequeathed by Nurgle, the father of death. Forms twisted and churned into unbelievable shapes, a tribute from Tzeentch, lord of all change. Faces that were once unattractive and dull, morphed into beauty incarnate, blessed by Slaanesh, mistress of desire.

Here, deep inside this once beatific night elf temple, depravity went on unchecked as Kelris and his cultists devoted themselves to their new deities. Of course, such gifts were given not without consequence. The sorcerer ordered them to capture unsuspecting innocents that travelled by the coast in return for these contributions from the chaos pantheon. The former Twilight Lord eagerly agreed to these conditions. As a result, a score of bound and helpless victims were stretched out at the back of the spacious cavern, mostly night elves but also a few orcs abducted from Zoram'gar Outpost along with a single sin'dorei male. They were the strongest, the ones who had not fallen into insanity at the sight of the cultist's debauchery. The weak were flung into the pit of Aku'mai, gibbering and frothing at the mouth, to be devoured alive by the gigantic beast.

Kelris strode importantly along the raised dais, beaming as he watched his assembled cultists prostrate themselves in his presence. They loved him, worshipped him. After all, he was the one who led them to this wonderful and glorious path of unrestrained power.

"Children of Chaos! Followers of the Warp! Heed my words!"

A hundred heads, bearing the magnificent mutations of the ruinous powers, followed his every movement, enthralled beyond intelligent thought.

"Long has this world been divided among races! Long have our forefathers fought one another in worthless wars! Long have we remained ignorant of the ways of the great gods of Chaos! UNTIL NOW!!!"

A concentrated, roar of approval greeted his statements.

"The Enlightened One, in his infinite wisdom, has decreed that we move on to the last stage of our plan! Brothers and sisters! The time is upon us! Our actions today will unite Azeroth under the banner of Chaos Undivided! And we! WE WILL BE THE VANGUARD OF THIS GLORIOUS INVASION!!!"

Howls of ecstasy answered him. Kelris joined in, screaming praises to the dark gods. The ritual was at its last step now. All that was required to complete the ceremony is freshly spilled blood. The orc smiled as he felt waves of exultation tremor throughout his twisted frame. So close… So close… Once the warp gate materialized, the daemons that resided in maelstroms of torment, manifestations of the Chaos gods themselves, would swarm through, eager to claim this world. Azeroth would be destroyed and remade into what it always should have been, a bastion of the ruinous powers. Then, and only then, would Kelris have his revenge on all those who had betrayed him, his family, his friends, even the fool C'Thun.

His visualization of what is to come is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a metal clad giant. Kelris shuddered in dread as the blood red eyes flashed with hatred and loathing. The strange being lifted a long weapon with a cylinder attached to the bottom. The tip flickers with blue flame.

* * *

Mankind always had an affinity with fire. When our ancestors were but mere apes hiding in abject fear from the horrible beasts that roamed ancient Terra, fire aided us. It was a means to keep us safe, to protect us and our loved ones. As we progressed past the age of stone, our propensity with fire grew. We developed furnaces, to cast weapons made from metal. We invented fire clearing, where entire forests were burned down so farmers could toil the soil underneath. More importantly, we realized the effects fire could bring to the way we wage war.

The bow, a revolutionary tool that allowed us to strike from considerable range. Our first modification to it was to wrap the arrowheads in oiled rags and light them on fire. The catapault, built to batter down fortifications no matter the size. Our first change to it was to replace the ammunition with pots filled with petroleum, and light them aflame. Even today, in the forty-first millennium, fire is the basis of our weaponry. Flamers, plasma guns, inferno cannons, melta guns, incinerators, melta bombs, firestorm cannons, plasma cannons, inferno pistols, heavy flamers, multi-meltas, to name but just a few. Fire is the Imperium's way to defy the encroaching darkness, to light the path already blackened. And there is no other weapon as iconic to the Imperium as the flamer.

The heretics are crowded together, kowtowing to the ork clothed in purple robes. I briefly wonder why a cult would have such a dim-witted creature for a leader. I push these thoughts away as my finger squeezes the trigger of my weapon.

The jet of promethium that spews out instantly catches ablaze as the volatile chemical reacts with damp air. The stream becomes conical in shape, and washes over the assembled cultists in a storm of fire. Screams follow, shrill and high-pitched. Forms bathed in the hungry orange glow drop to the rocky ground, thrashing and rolling to no avail. There can be no defense against the cleansing flames of the Emperor's Wrath.

The promethium sticks to their bodies, coating them from head to toe in red-hot agony. The eyes are first to go, bubbling and boiling away into nothing. The skin and flesh follow, turning into blackened crisps of smoldering meat. Those who were unfortunate enough to have their mouth open when the wave of fire hit suffer a far more horrid fate. These heretics can't even scream. Promethium, oily and slick, pour into their orifices, fusing teeth and tongue into charred slags of molten matter. The fiery chemical continues its descent down into the throat, through the lungs and the heart, dropping into the stomach and the intestines. These cultist burn from the inside out.

My finger depresses the trigger two more times, spraying those who were not caught in the initial burst with holy fire. They succumb quickly, screaming their last as the cackling flames devour their mutated bodies.

I advance forward, stepping over unrecognizable forms still ablaze, the flames flickering hungrily for more material to consume. The cultists's ork leader is untouched, the limited range of my weapon giving it scant seconds to live as I close the distance. It stumbles back, jaws askew, desperately afraid. Words tumble from its mouth, prayers to its dark gods. Beneath my helm, my face twists into an expression of godly hatred.

"Burn heretic."

The barrel of my flamer spews out one last expanding stream of holy fire.

* * *

Kelris wailed in horror as the orange flames engulfed him. His mutations, symbols of his power, withered and died in the scorching heat. The mark of chaos scarred into his forehead disappeared along with his skin, roasted into a crisp by the giant's terrifying weapon. This can not be! To be so close and yet so far! Kelris screamed in frustration as well as pain. He begged his new found deities for protection. Cajoled them for a new chance. Bartered for his life with the souls of others. He found no response.

Khorne, atop his skull adorned throne, had no liking for magic users. The Blood God disregarded Kelris and instead turned his view to the two bloodthirsters engaged in mortal combat at his feet. Nurgle, toiling away at the invention of new diseases, watched the orc's body deform as the burning promethium blazed unchecked. The god of decay sighed as it saw another of its children defeated at the hands of mankind's most primitive tool, fire. It's massive, putrefying bulk shifted, heading towards the Garden of Nurgle to think up of new ways to inflict death. Tzeentch, impassive as always, ignored the suffering of his worshipper. The flames changed the orc's body, and change was the embodiment of Tzeentch. Slaanesh, winkled her nose at the sight. Kelris was ugly now, scarred by fire. No longer was he of any use to a god that demanded her servants to be perfect in appearance. Her attention was better suited for the small gaggle of daemonettes pleasuring themselves in her private quarters.

The last thing Kelris saw before his eyeballs liquefied in their sockets, was the hulking form of the god of death.

* * *

Keina was no stranger to the gruesome spectacle of war. She had seen her friends and foe alike perish on the fields of battle. But this… This was… Inhumane! The night elf covered her nostrils as the stink of burnt flesh threatened to overcome her senses. Her gaze darted to and fro, taking in the pile of smoldering corpses with disgust. What kind of being was this Avarian to inflict such suffering among others?

She gingerly picked her way through the patches of charred remains, trying hard not to look down at their horribly disfigured forms. The blood elf was having similar problems, stepping over each corpse with a look of restrained distaste. Keina was no fool however, and saw the admiration mixed with the fear in Vareesa's look. She would be gnoll bait before she allowed such a corrupted woman near the god.

The night elf commander stopped as she reached her destination. The bound captives were mostly kaldorei, sentinel patrollers and a few civilians. They glanced up at her in a mixture of hope and trepidation. The new sword Avarian had bequeathed to her escapes from her belt and begins to hack through the ropes holding these innocents. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vareesa doing the same, slicing through the bonds of the Horde victims.

"Ishnu-dal-dieb, Shan'do." A freed sentinel whispered, using an honorific to thank Keina for her freedom.

"Don't thank me. Thank him," the kaldorei captain responded, jerking her head roughly towards the giant's direction.

* * *

"So, whose your friend?"

Vareesa turned as the male blood elf approached her, rubbing back the circulation that had all been cut off a few minute ago. He wore the uniform of the Farstriders, and the rogue nodded in recognition. She respected these rangers for what they did, and found them to be of much better company than the magisters back in Silvermoon.

"Not so much a friend as more of a future servant," her lips parted into an alluring smile.

"Friend or servant, take a trip with him to Quel'Thalas sometime. The Farstriders could use his talents." The ranger replied, giving the giant an appraising look.

"Hmmm… I'll keep that on my to-do list," Vareesa sniffed, "if you don't mind me asking, what's a sin'dorei doing in Ashenvale of all places?"

"Politics my dear. I was requisitioned by the Horde for my abilities."

"I feel for you. Must be boring working with such brutes."

"It's not too bad. The orcs are alright if you get used to them. The trolls though, are a whole different story." The ranger grimaced.

Vareesa understood. The blood elves induction into the Horde had been problematic, to say the least. The orcs and tauren were distrustful towards the elves, since barely decades ago, they had been staunch allies of the humans. The trolls were most adamant in their distaste towards her kin, citing the near genocide of their species at the hands of the elves as an example to prevent their inclusion. Had it not been for Lady Sylvanas and her Forsaken, the sin'dorei would have been denied entrance into the Horde.

She was about to respond, when an abnormal scent wafted into the room.

* * *

It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. Its bloated body, fat with corruption, creeps forward, leaving a trail of virulent puss fizzing on the cavern floor. Three broad, reptilian heads bob unsteadily, weaving back and forth on elongated, serpentine necks. Mouths open in a grisly smile, revealing razor sharp teeth. A spawn of chaos.

My twin hearts beat faster, stronger. Hatred against this abomination flows throughout my body. It is the embodiment of what we astartes stand against. We, the pinnacle of mankind, created through the holy geneseed of the primarchs. Them, the personification of all things evil in this universe, formed from the twisting and maniacal energies of the Warp.

The spawn is not stupid. Its brain, though having deteriorated from the madness that is chaos, still realizes out of all the beings that were scattered throughout the cave, I pose the most threat. Three pairs of lustrous, yellow orbs glare at me with hunger. It strikes.

I dodge the first snap of those monstrous jaws, stepping back as glistening fangs close on empty air. My flamer gushes in response, filling the short distance between me and the spawn's face with burning promethium. The head reels back, screeching in pain as the cackling flames eagerly consume the thing's corrupted flesh. My triumph is short-lived. The second head surges forward, and clamps down on my trigger arm. Nail-like teeth hold my limb in place, preventing me from maneuvering my weapon. I react quickly, pulling out the combat knife from its scabbard at my hip. My free hand jams the tapered point into the foul creature's skull, twisting the blade to enhance the damage already caused. It gives an unearthly shriek in reply, and looses the iron grip it held over me. Its death throes, however, knock me from feet, and drive the air from my lungs.

My enhanced bone structure absorbs the impact that would have crushed a normal man. I struggle up, and am immediately slammed down again as the last head lunges at me. I have no time to reach for my holstered boltgun or sheathed chainsword. My gauntleted hands find purchase on the spawn's massive jaws. I resist the thing's attempt to crush me in its maw, where the saber-like fangs would puncture my power armor and feast on my internal organs. My muscles strain, holding the beast's mouth apart through strength born of desperation. Drops of saliva patter on to my chest plate, defiling the skull-eagle motif.

From the corner of my vision, I see Keina and Vareesa move in to attack the spawn. The night elf looses arrow after arrow at the behemoth, while the blood elf darts forward to stab and cut with her daggers. The prisoners are assaulting as well, though without weapons, the best they can do is fling rocks. These feeble harassments are of no bother to the warp creature, but they do distract it. For me, that is enough.

I roar praises to Corax and to the Emperor as my hands slowly, but inexorably pry the jaws further and further apart. The spawn's pupils dilate wildly as it fights frantically to regain the upper hand. But it is far too late. That moment of diversion costs it dear. A sickening crack. The guttural bellow of a beast in agony. I tear the mandible from the thing's upper jaw in a flood of tainted blood. The head slumps to the ground in a rapidly expanding pool of ichor.

I exhale, suddenly tired from my exertions. I realize I am still holding the spawn's mandible. I cast aside the filthy body part and turn to see twenty odd xenos staring at me in amazement.


	12. Return to the World Tree

_ArcherReborn2: Thank you! There will be two more characters from the 40k universe that will be instrumental in the plot. One will side with Avarian, the other, not so much._

_Charles Bhepin: The excerpts you listed were already in the story. The only things I've edited so far are a few grammar mistakes. One of the more interesting things about the Raven Guard and its successor chapters, are the instability of the geneseed, which leads to a plethora of mutations among the marines' implanted organs. Who knows? Mayhaps Avarian will benefit from said mutations? Thank you for the encouragement!_

_Soulless reader: Thanks!_

_Mephisteron: Avarian will not deny the orcs' impressive history, but one has to remember, compared with humanity's struggle for survival in the 41__st__ millennium, the orcs' struggle against the Burning Legion and their own corrupted kin would be deemed as a conflict to be forgotten amidst more horrible theaters of war._

_exillion: YOUR WORDS ARE HERESY!!! Lol, just kidding. Character development in this fanfic will be progressive, meaning that you will learn more and more of Avarian, Keina, Vareesa, and more as you read on. Our hero will never fully stray from the teachings of the Imperial Creed, but he will of course deviate from it over time. _

_Emperor_chronicler: The Caverns of Time were one of my favorite instances in World of Warcraft, so the Bronze Dragonflight and Chromie will make an appearance at a later date. And yes, there will be contact between Avarian and the four factions of dragons that reside on Azeroth. _

_Vanbor the Fire Mage: Thank you!_

_Deviate Fish: Well, if astartes aren't so corruptible, how do we explain the traitor legions? Especially the Emperor's Children! Avarian will have a crash course in what the current state Azeroth is in very soon. And yes, more characters will be added, female and male._

_skipper_1337: Aptly said! _

_Thank you for all the reviews! Keep them coming please!_

Chapter 12

"Your actions continue to astound us Lord Avarian. First your valor at Astranaar, now this. You are truly a friend of the children of the stars." Whisperwind's tone is grateful, sincere. "However…"

"YOU DARE BRING ONE OF THE CORRUPTED SIN'DOREI INTO DARNASSUS!?!" The one known as Fandral Staghelm finishes with a bellowing roar.

My gaze shifts from the assembled Alliance denizens to the blood elf standing nonchalantly by my side. Most would assume her relaxed posture and expressionless features to mean confidence, but I know better. She was deep in enemy territory now. The only things that kept her from cracking were her innate skills and past experiences. It is false bravado that allowed her to keep a sense of calm. I find myself in turmoil once again. On one hand, I loathe this alien's inability to keep a stable mind. On the other, I admire her willingness to face her fears. After all, isn't bravado a byword for courage?

"Better corrupted than a bunch of tree-worshipping fools," Vareesa mocks.

Not very good at negotiations, this xeno.

"FILTH! YOU CHALLENGE ME!?!" Fandral takes a threatening step forward. The few sentinels in the temple grounds follow, notching arrows to curved bows. I had misjudged the enmity between the two once similar races. Vareesa's earlier protests as I guided the Land Speeder into the night elf city made a modicum of sense now. Of course, her troubles were of no consequence to an astartes. Still, she was a valuable resource to me, and I would not allow her to be taken away as of yet.

I enjoy the impression of stupefied shock that spreads on the Alliance members's faces as my massive form moves swiftly to block the blood elf from her tormentors. My bolter detaches from my hip with a faint clack. I raise it one handed towards the archdruid.

"Boltgun. Godwyn Pattern. Magazine currently houses standard shell types. Once impact occurs, the round will explode spherically. Unarmored targets will most likely not survive the experience," my statements drip with menace.

If looks could kill, the one Fandral gives me would have slain me a thousand times over. The night elf's countenance contort into unbelievable shapes as he struggled to restrain his anger. I note with a tinge of amusement the numerous diplomats surrounding the archdruid are inching away from him, no doubt wanting to be as far away as possible from the elf should I want to prove my words.

"I'm sure that Lord Avarian has personal reasons why he allows the blood elf in his company," Tanavar smoothly takes over, hands held out in a placating manner, "however, as much all of us want to know what said reasons are, I believe we have much more important issues to discuss."

"Indeed. From your earlier descriptions, this… Chaos… could prove quite a threat." Whisperwind sighs.

"That is an understatement. The entities in the Warp have caused the Imperium of Man trillions of casualties."

My declaration causes a ripple of consternation among the crowd.

"Trillions? There are that many of… us… out there?" the human envoy from Stormwind inquires in trepidation.

"There still are. The Imperium is the single largest empire in the universe. Millions of planets, trillions of citizens," I reply impatiently. I am a space marine, forged in the fires of battle, not a quill-doting scribe.

"Strange. In our travels aboard the Exodar, we have never encountered more of your race. In fact, the only humans we know of in existence, are the ones currently residing on Azeroth," the same squid-faced xeno as before states in a matter of fact voice, unwilling to directly oppose my earlier assertion.

"Too small the mind of an alien to comprehend the realities of the universe," the squid-man bristles at this insult, "the galaxy is a vast place. Infinite in size. Even in the forty-first millennium, Mechanicus exploratory fleets constantly find new worlds and species."

"Ach lad! You say forty-first! Then that means---" the squat's words carries a tone of urgency.

"Yes. What else abhuman? Mankind has been in existence for forty-one thousand years," my brows furrow behind my helm. I suspected that the xenos here would have no understanding of the magnificence that is the Imperium and humanity. But surely the squat and the heretic realizes to some degree their past glory?

"A-Abhuman? Forty-one thousand years? W-Wha--- N-No! Impossible!"

Apparently not.

"History lessons can be given at a different time, gentlemen. What we need to focus on is the threat at hand and judging from Lord Avarian's statements, the threat is quite potent." Tanavar interrupts the group of muttering diplomats.

"Quite so. I want all available sentinel commanders as well as the senior druids who are not within the Emerald Dream here immediately. We have much to discuss," Whisperwind gives me a gratifying smile, "you must be tired after your deeds Lord Avarian. Is there anything we can help you with? Accommodations perhaps?"

I gesture to spilled blood and viscera that litters my power armor.

"A place to cleanse myself."

* * *

Vareesa was in a very good mood as she passed through the Tradesmen's Terrace, the poor excuse for a mercantile place the night elves had erected. She felt the contents of the bags attached to her belt with undisguised glee. The kaldorei had been most reluctant to do business with her at first, but the blood elf knew that in the end, the promise of wealth would prove too tempting for even the bitterest of prejudices. The clink of gold coins clattering against each other was a testament to this fact. The rogue had made enough money for her employers to pay her three full seasons of wages.

But, that was just the icing on the cake. The main reason for Vareesa's contentment was the giant. He had shielded her, protected her when she most needed it. Like a noble knight throwing himself into harm's way to win the favor of a fair maiden. Of course, the blood elf was no romantic idealist. She knew the reason why Avarian had defended her. She was an asset to him. Valuable for the time being, but something to be discarded when it was deemed no longer necessary.

The rogue did not worry however. She just needed to prove herself indispensable to the giant. And there were many, many ways for a woman to stay in the good graces of a man.

In reality, the sin'dorei was puzzled about the god. He was immensely powerful; there were no questions about that. What intrigued her were his actions. A being of his stature could easily overwhelm any and all opposition, and carve forth a great kingdom on this world. People of all races would flock to this new found empire, eager to take advantage of the security and peace Avarian could offer. The question then, was why he had not. The giant chaffed at being near the night elves, anyone with eyes could see that. So why did he continue, in a way, to serve them?

Vareesa strolled towards the Temple Gardens. The man was a xenophobe; that was clear. The giant had almost shot the orc prisoners back at Blackfathom Deeps when he discovered their existence. It had taken quite a deal of persuasion from both Vareesa and the Farstrider ranger to halt his actions. Avarian had finally desisted when he learned the orcs were the major faction of the Horde. He had done so begrudgingly, however, and from the venomous glare the giant shot her, the blood elf knew that she would have some explaining to do.

The rogue ignored the looks of contempt her presence elicited as she passed a number of kaldorei. Her thoughts were much more preoccupied to notice or to care. Vareesa compared the giant to some of her chauvinistic male kindred in her mind, and found the difference too great. Before Arthas's wave of destruction hit Quel'Thalas, she had many suitors. Her father was a mage of substantial power, and some of her prospective mates came for this very reason, keen to climb up the ranks of Silvermoon using blood relation as a ladder. Her mother was very lackluster in the ways of magic, but she had great beauty that more than alleviated this weakness. This beauty was inherited to Vareesa, and most of her ex-boyfriends dated her for only this reason.

The blood elf hated them all. She disliked the way they continued to fawn over her, the false and cheap methods they used to gain her attention. She had always felt cheated that the elves who fought for her favor were perfect and unblemished on the outside, yet so revoltingly simple on the inside. Of course, Vareesa couldn't say this out loud, especially not when the then high elves were reaching the zenith of their power on Azeroth. In the end, she didn't need to. The Scourge had proven what she had always thought of her male companions.

With the destruction of the Sunwell by Arthas, the magical energies that kept the high elves satiated, vanished quickly and without warning. The quiet and peaceful atmosphere that her kind had always taken for granted disappeared and gave way to thick tension as the need to consume mana grew exponentially. It was inevitable then, that a good amount of her friends, including the majority of her suitors, rapidly deteriorated into wasted, skeletal mockeries of what they once were. The addiction took the weakest first, those who were thralls to magic in form and themselves in name only.

Her father had been similarly affected, but not to a great extent. Instead of going crazy and sucking the mana from the nearest soul, he instead, became more reserved and agitated, something that affected her family very negatively. It had been the constant strain in their home that forced Vareesa's path away from that of a mage to the dark, conniving way of the rogue. She would never allow herself to become one of the shambling, magic-hungering zombies that were once the proud descendents of the Highborne.

Her thoughts had been many. She soon found herself near the entrance to the Cenarion Enclave. Incidentally, this was the place where the giant was granted a place to "cleanse" himself. The blood elf's features turned upwards into a seductive smirk. Perhaps another lesson in Azeroth's history would come sooner than Avarian suspected.

* * *

I mumble the Catechisms of Expelling as I thumb the activation stub of my chainsword. It whirrs in response, multiple serrated teeth churning so fast that its motion is a continuous blur. Flakes of dried body fluid are ousted from my weapon, drifting slowly to the ground. Next is the Litany of Purity. I intone the words as I dump a bucket of water onto the blade, washing away the stubborn blood stains. A cloth made from animal pelt, furnished to me by the night elves, swiftly dries the beads of liquid. I could not allow rust to settle on the Emperor's instrument of war. Finally, the Prayer of Preservation issues from my lips. I unclasp the container that holds some form of primitive oil, once again provided by the elves, and pour its contents over the chainsword. Normally, I would have abhorred this minute offering to the weapon's machine spirit, but due to the circumstances, it would have to do.

My plated hands reverently place the chainblade aside. A potent warrior takes good care of his weapons and armor, and we astartes are no exception to this rule. A chapter's techmarines constantly provide the necessary anointments to our war gear, and it is only through their connection to the Machine God that allows us to don the holy suit of power armor or bear the wrath of the Emperor in the forms of our boltguns. However, the Death Spectres deviated from the norm in this regard.

Our homeworld and main area of operations were near the Ghoul Stars, aptly named for the supernatural things that resided in the twisted system. This led to many complications in the supply to our armories, as our chapter was based at the very fringe of Imperial space, many light-years from Holy Terra. As a result, each battle brother among Corax's sons was trained minimally by the techmarines so that our armaments would be better preserved for future engagements.

This is the reason I can slowly pry away the breastplate from my power armor without utterly destroying the connection to the black carapace. Red and green wires that were interlaced with my suit recede immediately back into the holes drilled into my chest by the apothecaries nearly two centuries ago. The vulnerable cables will be protected by the toughened tissue and strengthened muscle that constitutes a space marine's body.

I feel naked without the layer of ceramite protecting my torso.

I detach each and every part of my suit with due veneration, giving thanks for the bulwark they offer me on the field of battle. The ceremony to shed power armor is a slow and taxing process. This was the reason why a chapter's servitors were always present to help an astartes from his plate. Unfortunately, there are no servitors that reside on this world to my knowledge, and I would rather be boiled alive in Nurgle's cauldron of diseases than ask one of the xenos for help.

* * *

Getting past the Cenarion Enclave guards had proved to be both easy and entertaining. The sentinels had stopped the blood elf and informed her quite imperiously that no one was allowed in this quarter of their city, on orders of Tyrande Whisperwind herself. Vareesa, in response, had promptly cited the fact that the priestess of Elune's decree could not affect her, since she was not a member of the Alliance. The rogue had also stated implicitly the giant had wanted to see her; whether this was true or not, the kaldorei archers had no idea, but they didn't want to get onto the god's bad side. The incident with archdruid Staghelm was fast becoming a legend. Hence, it was with great reluctance that the sentinels allowed her passage.

Vareesa found the enclave to be empty, normally missing the numerous aspiring druids that came in and out of the forested grounds. The presence of the giant had instilled a sense of unease among the shapeshifters, and the night elves had all found various inconsequential matters to occupy themselves with once Avarian stomped into this tranquil place.

The blood elf's pace quickened as her sensitive ears picked out strange prayers in Common. Weaving her way through a grove of trees bordering a pool of luminous water, she caught the giant unfastening the front of his black armor.

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the broad, muscular chest, fully a meter from shoulder to shoulder. Painfully white, the elf swore she could almost see through the man's skin. Scars adorned the god's flesh, some faint and thin, others deep and ragged. Vareesa mentally traced each disfigurement with vivid interest. Pock-marketed holes littered twin paths down Avarian's pectorals, and the sin'dorei shuddered with morbid excitement as strange looking wires slithered into them.

He was near perfection. Near. That was what was important. One of the reasons why Vareesa never fully reciprocated the advances of her male kin was the duplicity in their form. The descendents of the Highborne could perfect their appearance with the flow of pure magic, something the rogue considered to be highly contemptuous. When the Sunwell had fallen, these once handsome elves quickly twisted into unsightly and stooped forms. Here, however, was something that without the aid of magic, achieved near faultlessness.

"Damn you blood elf! The orders of Lady Whisperwind is to be followed by all!" Vareesa cursed under her breath. Not now! Not now!

The kaldorei captain, Keina, strode commandingly forward, followed by a squad of her pesky sentinels. The night elves found their quarry half hidden by a tree, back turned against them. Keina placed a hand triumphantly on the rogue's shoulder, and nodded for her warriors to apprehend the elf.

A slender hand shot out, courtesy of Vareesa, and before the sentinel commander could react, firmly clasped her chin and swiveled her gaze to the sight that had occupied the rogue's attention.

Keina's moon shaped eyes widened considerably as she took in the scene.

"Oh."


	13. Thoughts and Awkward Situations

_rldragon: Thank you! Although Sargeras may not be as influential as the four idols of Chaos, he is still a being powerful in his own right. The fact of the matter is, the forces of order and disorder are effectively at a stalemate in the 41__st__ millennium, and even the smallest of powers could cause the tide to turn in one side's favor._

_Baka Ecchi Kon: Thanks! Sylvanas will make an appearance, as will all the faction leaders to some extent._

_Harbringer Delta: Thanks!_

_Night Hunter MGS: Thank you! I had wondered at first whether to incorporate just one marine or a full squad when I was just beginning this story. I decided against the latter simply because there would be ten different personalities I would need to characterize, each different, and would undoubtably draw attention away from Avarian. The two other 40k characters are pretty much set in stone as of now, since they both will be instrumental to the plot. Indeed, our astartes reactions to the Horde will be most conflicting! As for the harem, well, who knows? Maybe and maybe not!_

_Malleum: I have moar caek for you! _

_exillion: I do not know to be honest. This story will probably take a long, long, long time to complete. And warhammer is more my forte then warcraft._

_Soulless reader: It is entirely possible that High Gothic could be latin, but also possible it might not be. The novels from the Black Library aren't very precise on this subject and neither is the fluff. _

_Emperor chronicler: Thanks! The other two characters will not be marines, I'm sorry to say. One has been revealed to you in this very chapter. The other will not be revealed for some time. Adds to the mystery, no? And yes, Avarian will tell more about the Imperium. One of the hardships about this though, is through words, one cannot possibly describe the glory of the empire wrought by humanity. To fully appreciate its terror and splendor, one has to see it. Perhaps the green and yellow dragonflight would help in this regard?_

_TheEmperorProtects: The day I write a piece of work that resembles Twilight is the day Games Workshop decides to lower their prices on their miniatures. Romance will be included in this fic, but of course with other genres as well. The subject of looting was something that I pondered about implementing. I decided to incorporate it since it would make sense that gold and rare weapons would be valued by both the Alliance and the Horde. The problem with your suggestion of longer chapters is that quite frankly, if I did make them longer, it would probably be a good few weeks or even a couple of months to finish them. My current degree requires extensive studying, so it's not that I don't want to make the chapters longer, it's just that it would take a very long time. Your other questions will be answered in later chapters! Thanks for the review!_

_Mephisteron: A servo skull sounds interesting, but I'm sorry to say that the two other characters are pretty much set in stone. Thank you for your suggestions though!_

_Charles Bhepin: I would agree with your suggestions if my story did not already have a set plotline. Unfortunately, the two 40k characters will be very important to the plot and will have a very profound impact on Azeroth. Suffice to say, I cannot remove them without a complete overhaul of the story. You are quite right in saying that many 40k fics and novels replay the same old constant conflicts, and I am striving to avoid such a path in my work. Thanks for the review!_

_ArcherReborn2: Perhaps. If the plot heads in that direction, I will._

_Leafy8765: Your questions will be answered with the updating of new chapters!_

_Peanuckle: Indeed!_

_skipper_1337: It hasn't gotten to the M level yet, but perhaps it will in the future! _

_Thanks for the reviews!_

Chapter 13

Why me? Why choose me to be the plaything of an eldar witch?

These words pound continuously into my conscience as I deactivate the tubular support units holding my power pack in place via the link with my black carapace. I reverently detach the micro fusion reactor that powers my suit, and slowly place it on the foliage covered ground.

My lips curl slightly in a frown of distaste. The night elf xenos lived a very peculiar way of life. They seemingly refused the advancement of technology and instead preferred to exist in a permanent, archaic state. Their capitol of Darnassus reflected this. Instead of tall looming spires of a hive city, trees almost unbelievable in size spring from the unpaved dirt. Instead of massive, bustling hab-blocks that every Imperial citizen resided in, log cabins, exquisite in shape and style, are placed haphazardly around the city, contributing to the earthly feel and tranquil air. And instead of serviceable showers, I am forced to sanitize myself within a moss-encrusted pool.

These aliens were weak. That was the only explanation. Why else would these elves exist in such a pacifist manner with their surroundings? They should be harvesting their ample amount of trees for lumber, feeding them to the hungry fires of industry, and paving a way for them to overcome their hated opponents. This was how humanity defeated its enemies. Thousands of forge worlds, working day in and day out, churning out weapons as simple as a lasgun, to the mechanical wonder of a baneblade. Through the faith in the Omnissiah, the techpriests produce implements of war so that we may smite the foes of the Imperium and forever give praise to the Emperor's name.

It is with confusion, then, I ponder the eldar's statements. Why drag me from my chapter and my brothers out to this misbegotten planet? What purpose do I serve here? Am I to be a glorified shepherd, leading heretics and xenos alike towards the path of salvation? Is my purpose, that of a distant guardian, guiding and protecting the denizens of this world? Did my duty lie on the path of a vengeful redemption, where I personally deliver the Emperor's judgment on the filth that plague this planet? I sincerely hope it is the last one.

I long for my simple room aboard our battle barge, _The Wings of Corax_. It was small, but it was comforting. We were in transit to Cadia, reinforcements for the incoming Black Crusade. A total of five hundred battle brothers, chosen of the Emperor and gifted by the primarch. It was a glorious occasion to see fully half of the chapter assembled and at arms. It was even more so for me. I was to be granted induction into the first company, an honor that was reserved for the finest among the Raven's sons. I would be able to bear the Crux Terminatus, symbol of my proficiency in war and my faith in the Emperor.

The warp storm changed that. Our mighty ship was tossed around like a toy, testament that in the maelstroms of Chaos, we were naught but mere insects. The Gellar Field had flickered slightly before returning to its full strength. But that was enough for a multitude of daemons to take advantage of the lowered shields.

My squad engaged immediately, moving with the rest of the 5th company with the 4th and 7th in close support. I watched with pride as Veteran Sergeant Darkur smashed aside the jabbering things of the warp with mighty blows from his power fist. In a few days I would join him, black feathers painted on my bone white helm to signify my rank. Or so I thought. As I filled a greasy, slug-like daemon with exploding shells, a cackle of warp energy caught me in its heretical embrace. Everything went black. When I awoke, I was here, on this faithless, filthy world, devoid of my honor and of my glory.

That eldar's warp magiks did this to me, cast me from my path as a member of the first company and thrust me on its own twisting road to who knows where. But why? Why not some other astartes from some other chapter? Why Veteran Brother Avarian of the Death Spectres?

* * *

Keina Stormsong was but a mere child when the Sundering occurred. She would never forget the demon beasts that spawned forth with the advent of Sargeras nor the bloody havoc they wrought upon her people. Her clothes splattered with the blood of her family and friends, the young elf had wondered aimlessly about, lost in her own little world. Had it not been Lady Tyrande Whisperwind and her group of warriors that happened by, Keina would have no doubt lost her life at the hands of some wandering demon.

For many days and nights, she wouldn't speak, her large simmering eyes glazed over as they recounted again and again the slaughter of her mother, father, sisters, and brothers. Only with the banishment of Sargeras did the child finally begin to show signs of improvement, the haze of terror lifted with the expulsion of the Burning Legion from Azeroth. But Keina, among so many others who lost everything at the hands of the Highborne's addiction to power, would never be the same again.

The night elf matured quickly, her youth and childhood forever lost among the ruins of the elves' once great kingdom. She trained fervently in the art of the bow, her arms changing over time to muscular pistons of drawing power. She often went into the surrounding forests to meditate, her mind becoming keen and cunning. She practiced in the ways of stealth, until the sharpest bird could not hear her coming. She taught herself to become a sentinel, the warrior women of kaldorei society, forever vigilant against the encroaching threat of corruption.

It was no surprise then, with Lady Whisperwind's personal recommendation, Keina was quickly accepted in the ranks of the sisterhood. She proved herself to be an able leader, quick-thinking and calm to the point where there was no situation she couldn't handle. In recognition for her talents, the night elf was promoted and instructed to lead her own squad, where to this day, they still patrolled the area of Ashenvale… until the meeting with the giant.

The sisterhood of Elune had an honor code. Keina was probably breaking every stipulation on said code for what she was doing here. Peeping on an honored guest of the kaldorei. However, try as she might, she couldn't stop. Her admiring gaze drifted over the exposed parts of the god's body with fiery longing. Marble-like skin, immaculate proportions, the man was like a living, breathing sculpture of perfection. The night elf captain felt a tinge of shame. Not only was she intruding on what was obviously a private moment for Avarian, she was also taking advantage of the man's temporary laxity for her own desirous enjoyment.

Keina looked away hesitantly, trying desperately to force her thoughts away from the gutter. Easier said than done, especially when the giant removed his helm. Once again, the night elf found herself drawn towards the man's chiseled features and deep blue eyes. The first time, those eyes shone with rugged determination and barely contained fury. Now, they showed doubt and uneasiness. She wanted to comfort him, to console him.

A sigh caused Keina to start from her dream-like reverie. One of her warriors was staring at Avarian with the same sort of look the night elf commander had given him seconds ago. Keina was shocked the first thing she felt was a pang of jealousy. She was a sentinel, damn it! Not some foolish maiden in love for the first time!

The kaldorei captain shot quick peeks at the rest of her squad. They were reacting much in the same manner, moon-shaped eyes following the giant's every movements like a hawk tracking prey. Not that Keina blamed them. She felt a sort of protectiveness over the man, but also knew her sentinels were still women, hot-blooded and passionate. It was not often the patrols were allowed a rest from their duty in what remained of night elf domains. When they were granted a reprieve however, it was not uncommon for the warrior women of Darnassus to find company in the arms of men. Now, here was the finest specimen any of them had encountered in their long lives, stripping down and revealing a body any female would drool over. No, it was perfectly understandable for their desires to be piqued. That didn't mean Keina had to like it though.

Keina glanced back to see the god discarding the last plate of black armor from his upper body. She felt a shiver of anticipation juxtaposed with guilt as she realized where Avarian was going to reach for next.

She was distracted when the blood elf hurriedly stood up and began to tear off her garments with reckless abandon.

"What are you doing?" the sentinel commander hissed, hoping her voice was low enough so the giant wouldn't notice her.

"What does it look like?" the sin'dorei remarked coolly.

"You don't mean to--- Oh by Elune you do!" Keina moaned as Vareesa's actions finally made sense.

"Perhaps you aren't so dimwitted after all."

"You think he will fall for something as simple as seduction blood elf?"

"Hah. Maybe not to you," Vareesa shot her a look of undisguised disgust, "but I am quite sure the giant will recognize true beauty when he sees it."

"Y-You wench!"

"Funny. You're here peeking as well aren't you? Now out of my way kaldorei. I have an appointment with Lord Avarian regarding this world's history… and I plan to make that engagement last as long as possible." The rogue cooed.

"No! I won't let one such as you near him!" Keina reached for the sword freshly given to her by the god.

"Too late!"

The blood elf launched herself forward, keen on her target and her lust. The sentinel commander reached out desperately with an outstretched hand. It was pure good fortune that her fingers latched onto the rogue's blonde ponytail. Keina's whoop of triumph as she yanked hard was met with a yelp of pain from the sin'dorei. The sudden backwards force caused Vareesa to slip, flailing wildly. Lady Luck was fickle, however. A panicked kick from the blood elf tripped the night elf captain and sent her tumbling to the ground. The end result was that the two of them made a rather loud and splashy entrance into the giant's pool.

* * *

Perhaps this was a test? Perhaps the Emperor and Corax were gauging my strengths and weaknesses? Perhaps my actions here would dictate what would become of my future?

I ponder these thoughts as I pry off the last piece of armor that adorned my upper frame. I place it reverently by the fast growing assortment of ceramite parts that littered the ground.. It was necessity that made me shed the holy garments of the astartes. Due to the instability in our primarch's geneseed, the Raven Guard and its successor chapters had many implanted organs that refused to function. The Death Spectres were no strangers to this drawback. I myself was a victim. My mucranoid shriveled and died as soon as it was grafted into my body almost two hundred years ago. The apothecaries said I was lucky. There were neophytes denied their right to wear the black carapace due to no fault of their own, but rather to the high number of nonworking organs that would prove pivotal to a brother in power armor.

The mucranoid was supposed to cleanse the body of unwanted substances with modified sweat glands. Since I was missing this organ, I could only rely on the old-fashioned way of purifying the body. Water. It was this reason alone that I asked the foul xeno cleric for such a place so as to rid myself of any impurity that stuck to my form.

My bare hands reach for the groin plate.

If my existence on this world was a test of my willpower, of my faith, then I would not shirk from it. I am a space marine. An angel of death. Fear incarnate. But beyond the monikers, the power armor, the enhanced body, my hearts are still that of a man's. I have my moments of weakness, and this is one of them. Lost from my chapter, far away from the light of the Emperor, my mind clouded with doubt and confusion.

I pray for a sign, some kind of indication that the Father of Mankind knows of my troubles.

Two female xenos, one half-naked, flop unceremoniously into the luminous pool.

* * *

Vareesa knew how to swim. Her occupation demanded that her skills be multi-faceted. Swimming with a thrashing night elf on top of her though, was a whole different matter entirely. The rogue panicked as the weight of the kaldorei pushed her to the bottom of the pond. Vareesa's eyes bulged as she fought down the impulse to inhale air. Such an act would fill her lungs with water and potentially cause her to drown, a death most unsatisfying. With the strength of desperation, the blood elf managed to just barely squirm out from under Keina's struggling form. She surfaced quickly, thanks to the relatively shallow depth of the water, and inhaled vast gulps of air.

The night elf followed suit, exploding from the calm water in a monstrous splash. Vareesa snarled in anger. Her plan was ruined now. The blood elf wanted to appear graceful and supple, appealing to the giant's sense of what a real woman was supposed to be like. Instead, she had stumbled down the embankment in a noisy and tumultuous fashion, before landing in the bathing pool with a rather un-lady like comment. It was all that night elf bitch's fault! She was going to kill her and---

The sin'dorei felt twin eyes glistening with icy menace boring into her back. The blood elf's shoulders involuntarily hunched as she strove to avoid the god's wrath.

"Explain yourselves." Avarian's tone was so cold that Vareesa thought her skin would freeze over. The rogue was quick to react, adopting a coy and submissive posture, as she turned to face the source of her discomfort.

"My lord Avarian, I was only hoping to catch you during your time of leisure and tell you more regarding the past and current events of Azeroth."

"That's a lie!" Keina spat out a mouthful of water before continuing, "The blood elf was spying on you, Lord Avarian!"

Those diamond hard eyes flickered back and forth a few times between both elves before settling down again on Vareesa.

"You are useful xeno, but only to a certain extent. Remember that before you try anything foolish in my presence again."

"Yes lord," the sin'dorei bowed low, revealing her ample cleavage to the giant. To her consternation, Avarian seemed unmoved by a sight that would normally have driven men mad with lust.

"And you xeno Keina? Why do you trespass on my meditations?"

Vareesa smiled as the interrogation shifted to the night elf.

"I was warned of the sin'dorei's intrusion on your privacy, so I moved hastily to intercept and arrest her." Keina's cheeks betrayed the faint traces of a blush.

"Obviously you have failed in that regard." The giant's words are analytical, critical.

"Oh there's more than that my lord. You see, not only did our gallant paragon of virtue not halt me from my actions, she actually joined in! She was practically drooling as she watched you undress." The rogue's words sounded like honey but carried venom.

"Y-Y-You!!!" The sentinel commander's teeth ground together impotently.

Served her right. It was at the hands of this bumbling night elf that Vareesa's plans went awry.

"Enough. I have heard a sufficient amount of both your prattling," the god's voice cuts in promptly, "it was my weakness and lapse in awareness that caused this to happen."

The blood elf's long ears twitched. Was she hearing right? Not only had Avarian not blamed them for their actions, he was ostracizing himself?

"I will devote myself in prayers to the Emperor and beg for his forgiveness. Leave me."

The kaldorei was quick to accede to the man's wishes, and pulled herself out of the pool with the help of her sentinels, who were wise enough to remain hidden until now. Vareesa was not about to allow her chance alone with Avarian to escape. Maybe there was a way for her to salvage the situation and remain in the "good graces" of the giant.

"My liege, I wish to make amends for my error here," her descent into the bathing area had granted her an unforeseen benefit. Drops of liquid trailed down her voluptuous frame, sparkling in the eerie moonlight that beamed from above. Her remaining clothing were near transparent, dripping with thin streams of water and leaving very little to the imagination as to what lay beneath. An alluring smile crept onto her features, promising hidden delights and succulent pleasure.

"You can make amends by leaving me to my own devices, xeno." Avarian remained impassive.

"But my lord…" the blood elf's protest was cut short as an ivory hand grasped the massive gun still holstered by the giant's hip.

"You mistake my words for a request when in fact, they are an order. I dislike repeating myself, elf. And my boltgun has a rather alarming propensity to do away with my dislikes."

Vareesa managed to hide her disbelief at being refused as she beat a hasty retreat away from the god.

* * *

The figure was clad in crimson plate, a tattered cloak drifting slowly behind as it stalked from the yawning maw of Blackfathom Deeps. An archaic helm mutated with long curving horns shook from side to side. He disliked complications. The cult he had so easily managed to cultivate within the cavernous depths was now nothing but charred husks and smoking corpses. The instrument of his follower's gruesome demise was too apparent. Only the false Emperor's lackeys would be so uncouth as to scourge away the promise of power with the primeval element of fire.

A mewling sound escaped from the wretched being that crawled on all fours behind the power armored form. A psyker mind-slave, presented to him so that he may communicate with his superiors. Of course, with his failure here, the last thing he wanted to face was the fury of his benefactor. His wishes, however fervent they may be, were denied to him as the pitiful being bucked and contorted as the powers of the Warp took hold.

The psyker slave's eyes rolled madly in their sockets as his mouth moved rapidly to form the words that were being seared into his brain.

"SORCERER!" The voice is a roar of incoherent rage, forged from ten thousand years of hatred, betrayal, and war.

"My lord, Kor Phaeron…"


	14. To Be an Idol of Worship

_RogalDorn: Erebus will not make an appearance in this fiction. He will, however, be mentioned later on._

_Dredeath2000: Thank you!_

_TheEmperorProtects: You are correct in saying that Sargeras forged a mighty empire. However, compared to whom? The Imperium and Chaos both have extremely large realms spreading far across the galaxy, of course Chaos's domains are all pretty much in the Eye of Terror. Though the conquests of the fallen Titan are truly impressive, what if we compare them to the Emperor's Great Crusade spanning hundreds of years? Or even the feats of Lord Solar Macharius? The fact of the matter is, I cannot simply change a plot that focuses on 'warhammerfying' the warcraft world, if that makes sense. I realize that some lore fans will be disappointed in my classification of Sargeras as a Chaos deity, but understand that the storyline has not fully developed yet. Even as I type this, I'm going over how to explain the dwarves' relationship with the Titans, or the existence of C'thun and Yogg-saron. When you add two lore-rich universes together, you have to pretty much explain how everything relates together. The plot stays simple but will eventually expand, and expand it will! Dragons will make an appearance, but that will not be until later._

_Cszolee: Thank you!_

_Emperor chronicler: Now I did not say that Avarian himself would go into the Caverns of Time, but his companions certainly will. I have a rough sketch of how the CoTs will have an effect on the plot, and I think the readers will not be disappointed. The Green Dragonflight, like all the other Dragonflights, will be incorporated. You just have to read on! Religion will also be expanded upon!_

_Malleum: The Word Bearers do not worship a single Chaos god, but rather, the whole pantheon._

_Soulless reader: Yes. Kor Phaeron, the instigator of the Horus Heresy._

_Harbringer Delta: The Raven Guard and their successor chapters have been known to possess a very keen tactical mind, unlike for example, the Black Templars, whose zealotry have even brought the Inquisition on their heads more than once._

_Deviate Fish: Soon, very soon…_

_Peanuckle: I realize that a Chaos Sorcerer beat a single tactical marine down any day of the week. But I haven't introduced the third 40k character yet… Don't worry, he won't ellipse Avarian. I hope your concerns have been addressed with this chapter!_

_Thanks for all the reviews! Keep them coming! I need more brain juice!_

Chapter 14

I blink disbelievingly behind my faceplate. I had not known that so many xenos existed in this city. My previous experiences within the night elf capitol had been brief and succinct affairs. I did not have the time or the intent to dally around this place, so therefore my estimations regarding the kaldorei population had been vague at best. Still, I did not expect Darnassus to be this… inhabited.

From my vantage point on the Cenarion Enclave, I see masses of night elves gathered in excited throngs, chatting in their alien tongue. Children run joyously along the shores of the city's internal lakes, some pausing to stray at the water's edge to frolic with the cool liquid. They are swiftly chided by their parents, though the denouncements are light-hearted and almost playful in tone. Apparently the adults of this species were also in a festive mood. My analysis is proven correct when the group nearest to me break out in deep, happy laughter.

Strange. This place was practically deserted when my servos-enhanced strides took me to the pool Whisperwind had loaned me. The aliens there had been quite surprised at my appearance, and soon found various excuses to scamper from my sight. I had been content then, fresh from my victories and eager to purify my body. I was interrupted at one point however, when Keina and Vareesa decided to intrude on my prayers for their own benefit. I was too concentrated on my musings to notice their stealthy approach, and so in atonement, I continued my search for a blessing from the Emperor. That took a further two hours, and when I stepped out from the primitive enclosed area these elves hand constructed in lieu of simple showers, refreshed and rearmed, I was greeted with the sight of celebrating aliens.

My earlier satisfaction fades into uneasy disconcertment. I was used to seeing the fear etched in my foe as I slew them. I was used to seeing the abject despair wafting from their quivering forms. Used to seeing the realization that death was coming, granted at the tip of the chainsword and belching roars of the boltgun. Bliss, enjoyment, delight, I was not used to seeing. It chafed me that I could allow these xenos their content, when they should be groveling for mercy at my feet.

Where had all these elves come from? Surely they did not spring from the ground like the orks, whose spores were the cause of a never-ending tide of destruction and mayhem? I berate myself for such useless questions. The alien is a treacherous, revolting thing. Who knew what vile methods they utilized to reproduce? All that mattered was for me to crush them all under the iron heel of man.

My massive form begins to head for the kaldorei's heathen temple. I needed to find my next objective. Normally, under the Codex Astartes, the main directives of a mission would be explained in a briefing to the sergeants in charge of each squad. They, in turn, would enlighten us on our respective roles on the battlefield and clarify any misunderstandings. However, on this Emperor forsaken world, no such higher command existed. I was forced to go to a bunch of heretics and xenos for a course of action, and it irked me to no end. Were it not for the fact that humanity's survival lay in the balance, my bolter would be belching death at the assembled elves right now.

The sound of ceramite boots crunching into dirt does not escape unnoticed. The cluster of night elves I had observed laughing turn towards me at first in puzzlement. Their eyes widen when they view my colossal frame, painted black to symbolize the Raven as the bringer of doom. They shuffle away from me, whispering feverishly as I near. Good. I am in no mood to be detained by a gaggle of xenos filth. The sudden decrease in volume from this group is infectious, and soon, other crowds of kaldorei stop their conversations to peer at the metal clad behemoth striding purposefully through their midst.

As long as they don't come near, it shouldn't be an issue. My jaws clench as the thought forms into my mind. A plated hand strays towards the boltgun fastened to my hip, an instinct crafted from near two centuries of war. The display in my visor struggles admirably as it tries to impart firing solutions on all the xenos. A futile attempt, as there must have been several thousand elves gathered around me. I note with discomfort the rapt attention my presence brings.

My HUD registers a sudden movement, and I swiftly pivot around just in time to avoid an outstretched hand aiming for my pauldron. I force down the urge to snap up my holstered weapon. The night elf that tried to touch me is unarmed. His simple garments are that of a civilian. He is not a threat to me, as of now. I take notice of the female standing by his side, holding his other arm tightly in an urgent manner.

"You dare?" the built-in vox in my suit interprets my voice as a rasping hiss.

"My apologies, god," the male kaldorei inclines his purple haired head towards me, "I only wished for a blessing."

Behind my battle helm, my brows furrow questioningly.

"A blessing?"

"Yes lord. You see, my wife and I are expecting a child and we were hoping you would grant us your benediction."

I am shocked. I was used to the lower dredges of Imperial society worshipping us astartes along with the Emperor. We were made by Him, cast in His mold, so it stood to reason our existence anywhere was heralded as the coming of angels. But, here was a xeno, foul aberration to humanity, who had the audacity to commit the heresy of doing the same?

"Ask your own false gods," I growl vehemently.

The kaldorei couple frowns at this. They gaze uncertainly at each other before the male speaks again.

"Elune is not false. You should know, lord, for you are her wrath made incarnate to save us from the encroaching storm."

My hand which had been hovering near my holstered boltgun, snatches its handle and grips it with such strength I feel the ceramite plating squeaking with protest.

"H-Heresy!" I spat, my mind reeling with the revelation of the alien's blasphemous thoughts.

"Not heresy lord!" another of these long eared heathens step forward, "You saved my sister at Astranaar! Elune has blessed us with a champion at last!"

A chorus of agreement echoes around me. My visor flashes a warning rune as more and more night elves congregate before my eyes. Their countenance betrays no fear, no terror, but instead admiration, awe… and hope.

Fathers bear children up on broad shoulders, where their sons and daughters can view the kaldorei's new found salvation. Mothers cradle newborn infants, pointing to the black armored giant and cooing comforting words of praise. Curious adolescents ring around the inside of the crowd, nearest to Elune's chosen, where they can regard him with captivated fascination. Elders hang back, cracking crooked smiles in relief as the problem that plagued their race for ten millennia seemed to dissolve with the coming of this holy being.

My roar of consternation deafens them with its volume.

* * *

There was not much for the kaldorei to celebrate these days. For ten thousand years, the night elves have endured a slow decay, their populace dwindling, their power waning. The sentinel patrols return back to Darnassus with more evil tidings and less numbers. Those elves who reach adulthood are hastened towards the path of the warrior, where their deaths serve only to stall the scythe that comes to reap their kindred's deaths. Archimonde and the Burning Legion hastened this ignominious descent. The fiery path of destruction the fallen eredar forged on his way towards Hyjal was a catastrophic blow to the psyche of the worshippers of Elune, and until now, the kaldorei have resigned their race to a slow and painful end the fates seemed to have in store.

Then the giant came.

Clad in black metal, seemingly shielded from harm by Elune herself, he visited vengeful wrath upon the enemies of the night elves. With the thunderous booms of his gun-like weapon, or the shrieking churning spikes of his sword, he butchered the minions of the Legion with ruthless efficiency. Satyrs fell to his might at Astranaar. A wrathguard champion and its minions were crushed underfoot by the god. The naga, mutated forms of the Highborne of millennia past, were ripped apart and torn asunder by the giant's rage. To the kaldorei people, he was a hero, someone who had thrown himself into the fires of war for their sake, and emerged triumphant.

More importantly, with his coming, hope, beautiful encouraging hope, flowed among the once despondent night elves, lifting their spirits and squashing their fears. That was the reason for this celebration. Not because of some epic battle won, or an enemy finally defeated. No, this festival was for the reemergence of the sons and daughters of Elune.

And many had come to revel in its jubilation.

Keina nodded happily in greeting towards the sentinel leader fresh from Auberdine. She and Sheyeia were good friends, having developed a close relationship during the rigorous training regimes offered by the guardians of Darnassus. They had received their captaincy at the same time, and both were slightly disappointed they would not be serving in the same squad.

Sheyeia, in return, flashed a winking smile before turning to direct the excited civilians she guided via hippogryphs. The flying animals were being worked double hard with the ferrying of such a large number of elves, something they were not used to. As a result, some of the beasts had grown reluctant to take to the sky, a problem eagerly fixed by the sentinels, especially with such a rare event taking place.

Seeing her friend busy, Keina shot a quick glance towards the giant standing tall and resolute among a crowd of well-wishers. Her contentment was cut short as she caught sight of the man's expression. Lips drawn into an emotionless line across an alabaster face, Avarian seemed to regard the night elves surrounding him with an air of someone who had just uncovered a nest of cockroaches. With his helm tucked behind one arm, the god radiated confidence and superiority, but on his countenance, there was only superiority.

The sentinel commander frowned. The giant was an enigma, a mystery yet to be solved. She realized that there were tensions between the various races of the Alliance, and when the offer of friendship was extended from the night elves, many had balked to ally for xenophobic reasons. Avarian, however, took xenophobia to a whole new level. He seemed to revel in it, glorify in it. His words often carried a scathing tone, proud and arrogant. He seemed to regard those around him as lesser beings, unworthy and undeserving. The god had also made numerous mentions of the "Emperor" and the "Imperium", though he had not fully explained their meanings, the night elf guessed it had something to do with the way he acted.

If Avarian continued his path of willful ignorance and brazen conceit, he would alienate everyone around him.

Keina shook her head slowly. Who was she to criticize this man when she herself had committed a great wrong in his presence? The kaldorei captain blushed slightly as she remembered her foray into the giant's bathing place in order to apprehend Vareesa. Speaking of the blood elf, where was she? Hopefully not concocting another plan to seduce the god. Her last attempt had failed spectacularly after all.

Her search for the sin'dorei was interrupted by a heavy hand landing on her shoulder. She peered up from her chair to see Sheyeia regarding her warmly.

"Elune-Adore Keina, I hope all has been well?" The Auberdine captain asked, merry lights dancing in her large eyes.

"Elune-Adore Sheyeia, and you know, the same old same old," Keina replied.

"Is that so? Not from what I hear at least," Sheyeia's gaze turns to the god admiringly.

"I didn't expect the news to travel that fast."

"Oh, it does. We were sent as reinforcements to Astranaar, but discovered that the situation was quite taken care of."

"Is that so? I didn't see you."

"We arrived just as you sped off with him in that ugly machine thing."

"A shame then."

"A shame that we were stuck with the burial details for the dead satyrs, that's for sure."

The two chuckled. It was good to unwind from the stress of constant vigilance that their occupations demanded.

"So, is it true then?" The Auberdine sentinel nudged Keina.

"True what?"

"True that you and the god went on a little tryst down Blackfathom Deeps?"

"He has a name, you know."

"So you two are on speaking terms as well!" Sheyeia jibed exultantly, "You'll have to introduce me to him sometime."

"That time might be closer than you think," Keina replied worriedly, as she watched the giant detach himself from the ring of night elves with difficulty. Those dazzling blue eyes focused on her like searchlights and the sentinel commander shuddered in fear-induced anxiety. She had not yet formulated a way to apologize for her earlier actions and with the mood of the god so foul, she sincerely doubted her words would have any tangible effect on his opinion towards her. Not that she cared of course.

The thumping of plated boots grew still as Avarian halted before the two sentinels.

"Xeno Keina. You will explain these… happenings." Even without the helm to amplify his tone, the words are still loud.

"A celebration my lord."

The giant's jaw clenched visibly.

"For?"

"For your valiant deeds on the field of battle. For your heroic feats that have saved kaldorei lives. For the hope that you bring us." The sonorous voice of Tyrande Whisperwind flows smoothly behind them.

* * *

"The people of Stormwind would welcome you with open arms Lord Avarian, if only you would visit them."

"You think we draenei would not welcome him with the same warmth?"

"Of course not. I am merely stating the simple fact that it would be more comfortable to stay with your own kind."

"Pah! There be nothing but stale inns and bad food in Stormwind. Its Ironforge ye be wanting to stay at lad."

"Obviously Lord Avarian prefers it here at Darnassus. He hasn't left for anywhere else."

"He hasn't left because you night elves have kept him here with imagined threats."

"Stay your tongue human! Was the burning of Astranaar imagined? Was the Twilight Hammer residing in Blackfathom Deeps imagined?"

"Do not exaggerate your problems elf. We all have issues that need to be dealt with."

"And you're the one to lecture us? Your king can't even handle a bunch of Defias thugs wondering around your backyard."

"Of course we can't! How can us, when we constantly have to send our young men and women to fight the battles waged in Northrend and the Outlands?! We need his help!"

"Ye be thinking yer deserving of his aid? We be wagin' a war against the Horde in Alterac Valley!"

"And us gnomes! Don't forget about us! We need to have Gnomeregan back! We've petitioned the Alliance for the troops and supplies but no one answers us!"

"The loss of your capitol was your own folly, not ours. Deal with it."

"Which is why we need to borrow Lord Avarian only for a short time. And since we are already situated with the dwarves in Ironforge, he could help them too! It would be like shooting two birds with a Nesingwary 4000!"

Vareesa fought down the urge to laugh at the sight of near a dozen Alliance diplomats shouting and gesturing at one another across the feasting table. And it had begun so well, the celebration. Oaken platters of steaming hot food had been brought up, with fine wine to boot. The blood elf was quick to capitalize on this, and cheerfully began to eat to her heart's content. It was not often she could taste such a fine meal, most of her time being spent on missions where the rations she had obtained were woefully short of her expectations. Her servers, who were all night elves, did not hesitate to express their displeasure at her with scornful glares and muttered curses.

How did that old human saying go?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

The rogue was shielded from sticks and stones by the giant. She could deal with trifle insults. Of course just how long Avarian would protect her depended on how useful she proved to be. Her last action to gain his attention had been an abysmal letdown, and Vareesa was keen to not let such a thing happen again, though why this man seemed unaffected by her seductions, the blood elf still did not know.

The sin'dorei glanced at the god from her place at the table. He seemed impassive, but the rogue knew that was only an illusion. She was very adept at what she did, and one of the requirements to be a successful warrior of the shadows, was to be able to gauge your foe at a distance. Though Avarian wasn't an enemy, Vareesa could plainly see behind the mask of cold indifference he wore. The man was annoyed. Subtle hints gave that away. The twitching of the eyebrows as an arguing voice suddenly rose in volume, the slight downwards turn of the mouth when a specific statement seemed to disgust him. The blood elf felt her admiration for this man soar. Many others would have already given in to the tumultuous quarrels being thrown and would have either joined in, or given up. The giant had tremendous self-control, something she could definitely respect.

The night elf leaders, were a whole different matter. Their high priestess, Tyrande Whisperwind, was rubbing her temple with a one hand, desperately urging the headache caused by the squabbling envoys to recede. The old druid, Tanavar, was trying to calm everyone with no discernable effect, while his counterpart, archdruid Fandral Staghelm, had been one of the first to join in the massive dispute. The sentinel commanders too were adding their voices to the crescendo, explaining the various theatres of war that were in need of help. All but one. The one called Keina stared sullenly back at the blood elf's investigative gaze. So she was still upset about that whole bath affair eh? Vareesa couldn't see why. The kaldorei had ruined her plans, and in return, she had denounced her in front of the giant. All's fair in love and war.

"Why don't we ask HIM where he wants to go eh?"

Vareesa was surprised at the sudden lone statement of reason. It had only taken half an hour of pointless bickering for this one sentence of logic to emerge.

The rogue spotted the opportunity to redeem herself in the giant's eyes. If done right, her standing with Avarian could sky-rocket. But the prospect was a risky one, dependent on the god's willingness to work with her.

"He has already decided," the blood elf's words were like silk. The table's numerous occupants all turned to glare at her in astonishment.

"I have spoken with Lord Avarian on this matter, and he has agreed our next destination will be Silvermoon," Vareesa finished, giving a quick glance to the giant for his approval.

Two score heads swiveled towards the man's direction, barely-registered alarm apparent on slack-jawed features. The god met their stupefied gaze blankly as always. Here was where her fault in the plan lay. If Avarian did not agree with her, she would be made to look like a fool. It would also be indication he disapproved of her ways, and the rogue knew that her act would only serve to lower his belief, if there was any to begin with, in her.

The god of death nodded once.

Vareesa felt relief flooding into her body. The temptation to scorn the Alliance ambassadors had proven to be too much after all. The giant promptly shot her a look of reproach. The sin'dorei didn't take it to heart though, for mixed in with the censure, was a hint of appreciativeness.

Her vivacity would have been put to better use on the diplomats. The human from Stormwind was gazing at Avarian with a look of abject horror, trying to mouth the words that were being conveyed by a much bewildered brain. The draenei was having a similar bout of confusion, face tentacles quivering, as he looked from the giant to her and back again. The dwarf had been gulping down a mug of ale when her words hit, and had sputtered the contents into the face of the envoy sitting next to him. The gnome… The gnome had fallen off his chair.

The night elves, being the most numerous at the feasting table, were no less affected. However, the kaldorei were a calm race, and hence did not display their shock at the giant's agreement fully. The only ones who had not been deceived for the blood elf's ploy were Tanavar and Tyrande Whisperwind.

Taking advantage of the unexpected lull in the conversation, the high priestess of Elune launched into her own diatribe.

"Now that order has been restored, albeit in a rather unusual manner, I have a suggestion where you can go next, Lord Avarian."

"Where?"

The kaldorei leader's lips lifted into a thin smile.

"Theramore."

* * *

"YOU WILL EXPLAIN YOUR FAILURE SORCERER!!!"

Azechral the Twisted winced as the words of his liege buffeted him with venomous force.

"Master of the Faith, Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers, Great Enlightened One of---"

"ENOUGH OF THIS ASS KISSING AZECHRAL! I DID NOT SACRIFCE TWO THOUSAND OF MY BEST PSYKERS SO THAT YOU MAY CONTINUE IN YOUR SYCOPHANTIC WAYS!"

"Of course Dark Apostle… I was merely listing your titles---"

"THE GROX-SPAWN I HAVE FOR A CREW CAN DO THAT FOR ME EVERY DAY!!! NOW EXPLAIN THE LOSS OF MY PET AND YOUR INEPTITUDE!!!"

"My liege… It was not my ineptitude or failure. In fact, I was expecting this to happen. Call it a test if you will…" the sorcerer whispered soothingly.

"A test? You would waste my most prized spawn for one of your convoluted trials?" the master of the Word Bearers had restrained his voice, though the anger and fury were still much in apparent.

"Aku'mai's death was most unforgivable lord, but not unforeseen… Surely, you'll agree the sacrifice of your… pet… would be needed for the greater glory that lies ahead?"

"I do not need YOU to tell me the goals of this endeavor!"

"Quite so… To answer your question my lord Apostle; I was conducting an experiment to see how well the indigenous peoples of this planet take to the powers of Chaos."

"And your conclusion?"

"They are drawn to it like a moth to flame…"

"That still does not explicate your failure with the daemon portal!"

"My liege, the Warp has very little effect on this world… You didn't think that a mere hundred cultists could cause such a powerful construct to materialize did you?"

"You insult my intelligence sorcerer?!?"

"I wouldn't dare sire… I only wished to inform you that in order for a daemon portal to be summoned, we would need a much, much larger base of… followers."

"And I assume you have a way to obtain such a following?"

"Of course I do my lord… There is one most influential person among this world's populace that would prove to be a useful ally, granted we merely guide his path."

"And who might this lucky individual be?"

Behind the corrupted visage of the sorcerer's helm, a lipless mouth forms into a shark-toothed grin.

"King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind…"


	15. An Unforgiving Galaxy

**Now some of you wondered why I chose Varian Wyrnn as the one to fall to the temptations of Chaos. A better question would be, why not? The Church of Stormwind is an obvious deterrent, yes, but then again, when has religion ever stopped a Chaos infiltration? The answer is of course, never. One has to remember, the Imperial Faith, based on the worship of the Emperor, is one of the most zealous and narrow-minded forms of religion ever conceived into existence. Yet, Chaos can still corrupt planetary governors, whole Imperial Guard regiments, entire populations, and even the indomitable space marines. During the Horus Heresy, the Word Bearers primarch, Lorgar, believed solely in the Emperor's divinity, yet fell to the taint of the ruinous powers nonetheless. Why not choose Sylvanas? One reason is because she will have an impact on the plotline. The other reason is why would a Chaos sorcerer take the time and effort to taint a bunch of undead? What possible use could they be? Their blood can't be spilled for rituals due to the decay in their bodies, which makes them useless as cultists. Why not Garrosh Hellscream? Because I don't want the plot to go along the lines of "lolz Bloodz 4 teh Bloodz God!!!" **

**Of course the descent of the king of Stormwind into corruption won't be an instant thing. The sorcerer will have to beguile him and tempt him a significant amount of times for Varian to finally fall.**

_Emperor Chronicler: I cannot give you a definitive yes or no to your suggestions/questions. To do so would reveal the plot, which kind of takes the fun out of reading. I will promise you this, however. The fall of Varian Wrynn will be quite spectacular! Kor Phaeron does not make an appearance himself, rather a sorcerer under his command. _

_Will of the Emperor: One has to remember the races on the Alliance side as well. The draenei and the night elves are all technically xenos. Yet, our hero has not gone on a wild cleansing spree… so far… _

_TheEmperorProtects: I understand the Death Spectres do not know their primarch. However, a lot of battle cries and future dialogue I've invented for our main character won't work if there isn't a known primarch. So in short, my version of the Death Spectres are a successor chapter of the Raven Guard. _

_skipper_1337: Ahhhh yes… The Dark Portal. The gateway to the Outlands. This will all be covered in later chapters._

_Peanuckle: Silvermoon was the capitol of the high elves until Arthas and the Scourge destroyed the Well of Eternity, the source of magic for the high elves. The high elves renamed themselves the blood elves for their loss and suffering at the hands of the undead._

_Malcho1234: The "triple" will be growing in later chapters._

_Night Hunter MGS: I hope this chapter pleased you then!_

_Weapon-VII: There are no articles about the Death Spectres, except for the short piece on Lexicanum._

_Mephisteron: Would I disappoint? XD_

_Timewatch: Indeed it does!_

Chapter 15

The decision of Theramore as the next logical objective was not accepted well by the diplomats. The human from Stormwind was especially vocal in his protestations. Something regarding "Horde-loving extremists" or along that line. But in the end, their complaints went unheeded. An astartes of the Death Spectres would never allow flowery words or two-tongued lies to impede his mission. Besides, after Vareesa's impromptu history lesson, I am most eager to meet with this… Jaina Proudmoore.

This Jaina, it seemed, was a most interesting figure. She appeared to be a fine leader, and a rather young one at that. Unlike most planetary governors I had the misfortune to meet. The regents of the Emperor's words were often servile, inbred things. Born into their position of responsibility, they surrounded themselves in unneeded opulence and subservient lapdogs. The sad result was many worlds falling into the hands of rebels and heretics, when their capture could have easily been prevented. Proudmoore apparently was not of this breed of gutter-slime.

From the blood elf's hasty lectures, I discerned the fact that if it was not for Jaina's leadership, human casualties would have been substantially high. I respected her for her daring and courage, and the quick mind that had saved countless lives.

I hated her for her tolerant ways.

Xenos and abhumans festered in her city like the boils on a plague zombie. Stunted ratlings, long-eared aliens, stout squats, among others walk pleasantly along what I assume to be the city's residential area. I resist the urge to spray the surprised filth with hot lead from the Land Speeder's assault cannons.

Instead, the hover craft expertly weaves around astonished pedestrians, jolting and shuddering with power. I am well used to the exertions of the machine, having piloted one during my twenty year service as an assault marine in the 8th company. The two xenos strapped in by my side have no such experience.

Keina curses as a more profound lurch from the STC construct jerks her against the plasteel side compartment, despite the belt harness locking her in place. Vareesa follows a second later, pressing the night elf tightly from the buffeting force of the abrupt turn.

"Get away from me sin'dorei!" the words are almost lost in the roars of twin turbines.

"I would if I could!" argued the blood elf, squirming in a futile attempt to right herself.

A verbal tirade spits from the kaldorei in her native tongue, causing Vareesa's brows to rise substantially.

"After those insults, I think I'm not going to move at all. In fact, this is most comforta---"

I slam the Land Speeder's control sticks to the left, avoiding a Theramore citizen, and causing the xeno to pitch along with the vehicle's motion. Keina lurches after the blood elf, a triumphant grin on her face.

"Hah! Now it's my turn!"

* * *

Night elves were a most reserved species. Unlike the younger and rasher races, the kaldorei are always calm, no matter the circumstance. Some speculated such an attitude resulted from their indoctrination with the serene aspects of nature. Others deduced the children of Elune forced themselves to remain pragmatic as a form of punishment for their sins, ten thousand years ago. Hence, the established view of any night elf was a cool-headed, unruffled figure ready for anything.

The hippogryff riding sentinel that had descended into the flying roost of Theramore last night shattered this stereotype into a thousand pieces.

As soon as the kaldorei warrior woman landed, she had begun spouting an incomprehensible dribble of words relating to "god" and "death". The flight master had to question the sentinel for quite some time before realizing she held a message for the Lady Proudmoore.

In the end, the night elf was directed towards the Lady of Theramore's quarters, though she seemed more eager to preach to passing civilians about the coming of salvation. Very much a far cry from the normally subdued way these elves worshipped Elune. The message itself was delivered in a very mysterious manner. A black clad giant? Slayer of the Legion? Guardian of Darnassus? Jaina had been bemused then. Only rarely did the kaldorei acknowledge feats of courage. Whoever their new found hero was, he must have done something truly remarkable.

Of course, that had not been the only thought travelling through the young mage's brilliant mind. If such an impressive figure existed, why would he travel to Theramore of all places? The city of Stormwind was larger by far, and held the greatest amount of influence over the Alliance. It had taken over Theramore's title of capitol of humanity just recently, and Jaina was forced to relinquish this glory among many others to King Varian Wrynn. The only redeeming quality about her little port establishment was the sway it once held during the Third War, when the city became a beacon of hope to the beleaguered remnants of Lordaeron's people. It had also been a focus point of the brief treaty between the Alliance and Horde, though this little fact was soon disregarded as old prejudices split the truce almost immediately after the Battle of Mount Hyjal.

Jaina knew her association with the Horde tainted her reputation among the factions of the Alliance. They distrusted her not for personal reasons, but because the bitter memories of blood-thirsty orcs ravaging their lands refused to abate. To them, the new Horde was no different from the pawns of the Burning Legion many decades before. The ruler of Theramore despaired for this very reason. As long as old wounds refused to heal, there could never be a peace accord between the races.

The steely echoes of plated boots sounded the arrival of their guest.

The young mage sighed as she drifted from her thoughts and focused on the matter at hand. This "Guardian of Darnassus" would undoubtedly be another fresh faced young adventurer eager to make his or her name known to this world. No matter how long or grand the title they were bequeathed, they all turned out the same.

She was proved abruptly wrong when the thick wooden doors of her meeting quarters flew open, hinges creaking with protest. It would take monumental strength for such an action to occur, and Jaina was sure her two guards at the entrance didn't grow enough muscles to make a tauren jealous overnight.

The instigator of such a rude barging in would need to be chastised. The words were on her tongue and about to be issued when her eyes spotted the colossal form of the god. The words that she had so smoothly formed promptly died on her lips.

The thing was tall. Very, very tall. And very, very big. Jaina's gaze found itself riveted to the being's form with unhealthy fascination. Questions and conclusions flashed intermittently in the young ruler's brain. The chest was too wide for that of a normal human, or any other species for that matter. The skull with wings emblem carved into the chest plate. What did it mean? Black metal, signifying what? Shoulder guards, pauldrons, huge. Strips of parchment, fluttering with the god's movements. Signs of decoration? Badges of honor? That bone white helm, different from any she had ever seen. A mouth piece with ventral slits. Did he breathe through that? The weapon strapped to his hip, gigantic, heavier than she could lift. It was a gun, the barrels testified to that. But such an advanced musket, and the gnomes hadn't invented it first? The long metal sword-like contraption with curved spikes. A blade of some sort. How did it work?

The regeant of Theramore had always been an inquisitive woman. Her curiosity towards the unknown was what led to her open-minded demeanor. So it stood to reason that the booming, baritone voice of the giant and the meaning it conveyed threatened to overload her inquiring mind.

"I greet you, Lady Proudmoore, in the name of the Emperor and the Imperium of Man."

* * *

She is strong, this woman. Intelligent too.

My abrupt entrance caused a brief moment of surprised shock among her counselors. I note with revulsion that many are the same ilk as Vareesa, though their eyes glitter blue instead of green. So there are more breeds of elves? Perhaps their form of reproduction did resemble the ork way of spore scattering.

I conveyed my displeasure as only an astartes can.

"I did not realize the much esteemed Jaina Proudmoore would lower humanity's greatness by consorting with the xeno." My words are short and painfully to the point.

The girl's face loses the inquisitive smile instantly.

"You will treat my advisors with the same respect you convey to me."

She has some fight in her. Good. She may become a valuable asset to me.

"The xeno does not deserve respect, only scorn for their treacherous ways." I respond simply.

"Yet you have in your company two such… xenos," Jaina gestures to the elves standing slightly behind me, "Do you not violate your own code?"

"They have proven to be more valuable than the norm."

"Indeed? In any case, we have not been introduced properly yet. I, as you know, am Jaina Proudmoore. The one next to me is Aegwynn, former Guardian of Tirisfal."

My gaze drifts from the young woman to the white-haired visage of an older female. I note with some relief that she is human. Aegwynn, in turn, seems to be in deep thought, glancing at me as though if trying to remember a long forgotten memory. I disregard her almost immediately.

"Brother Avarian. Death Spectres."

One of Jaina's eyebrows rose inquisitively.

"You will not explain further?"

"That will take some time. You will not understand without prior knowledge regarding the Imperium." I reply impatiently.

The young ruler settles in her seat.

"I've always loved history."

* * *

"The Dark Age of Technology began it all. Ten thousand years of discovery, inventions, and enlightenment."

The giant's deep voice carried a resonant tone. Keina could not help but be smitten. Her elongated ears twitched eagerly as she strived to catch every word. The kaldorei were a race that did not record their history on paper, but rather passed it on through countless stories and tales. Each generation would tell their children of past glories and sorrows alike. Now, here, the god was exposing his own saga for her and the others to hear. The sentinel commander wished slightly Avarian was depicting his past only to her.

"From the simple lasgun to the interstellar warp drives of a colony ship, humanity was unmatched in its technological innovations. We spread from our cradle of existence, Holy Terra, and plunged into the voids of space, intent on the formation of colonies."

Keina shook her head at this. As far she knew, only the draenei had space faring ships. She had no idea the humans were so advanced.

"It was a progressive age. Many planets were settled, and soon teemed with the vigor of human life. It was this time that we first met alien races during our forays ever deeper into the galaxy. The encounters were beneficial at first. We were eager to learn more from other species, and they were eager to learn from us."

The giant took in a deep breath. His next few statements were laced with barely contained fury.

"Many of our colonies soon mixed with xeno populations. Breeded with them. Worshipped their idols."

The night elf commander could not see the reason for Avarian's rage. This was all quite normal in Azeroth. Not so much for the breeding part, but inter-species relationship were not all that unheard of, though rare they may be.

"This proved to be our downfall. The Age of Strife. Almost overnight, humanity fell from our rightful place of power and descended into the throes of anarchy. The same aliens that were allied with us, were friends to us, turned on us like wolves on an injured grox. Humans were enslaved, killed, tortured, sacrificed. Our species was brought to its knees."

Oh. That would explain it.

"Surely, there must be a catalyst for such a fall?" Jaina Proudmoore interrupted the giant's saga.

If the god was annoyed at the disruption, he did not show it.

"That has been lost within the annals of time. During the Age of Strife, many civilized worlds fell to barbarity and disorder. Any written records were destroyed by the massive civil wars that raged unchecked on innumerable planets."

Innumerable? Just how large was the universe?

"For five thousand years humanity suffered at the hands of the alien. But that was not all. The ruinous powers were quick to take notice of our plight. They found us to be weak. To them, we were prey. Hundreds of worlds screamed in agony as foul daemons tore into reality, and rampaged across their surfaces. Those who were lucky were killed instantly, victims to the warp spawns' thirst for carnage. The others were dragged, terror-stricken, into the miasma of the Warp, where their souls were torn apart."

Keina shivered slightly. She was hearing her race's own tale, retold in the eyes and experience of another. This would explain the fierce hatred the giant held towards the Burning Legion.

"We would have fallen. Lost forever in the unforgiving vastness of the cosmos. If not for the Emperor"

Avarian's next words are filled with fierce pride.

"The Father of Mankind. He rose from the ashes of a war-stricken Terra, and united the techno-barbarian clans that had superseded authority. He created the mighty Space Marines, the Adeptus Astartes, to march at his side. To lead these genetically enhanced warriors, he forged twenty beings of immense power. The primarchs. Each one was crafted in his mould. They were His true sons, and He, their supreme father. But before the Emperor could carry out his plans, the tainted forces of Chaos struck again. They could not match the Savior of Humanity in strength, so they tried to thwart him by casting the primarchs across light-years of space, each onto a separate planet."

Everyone in the room stood stock-still, captivated by the god's story.

"The Emperor would not be denied. Without the primarchs, the Father of Humanity took on the mantle of leading the astartes legions. A massive fleet of starships was made, gifted to him by the tech-priests of Mars. With this armada, we blazed a trail of fiery retribution amongst the stars. For each planet we visited, we rescued our kin from the clutches of tyranny and slavery. For each world we visited, we scoured the alien and the daemon with sword and flame. We paid them back a thousand-fold for their perfidy."

Zealotry had crept into the giant's booming voice, red hot and fanatical.

"The Great Crusades. The golden age of humanity. World after world was retaken. The primarchs were found. The Emperor was overjoyed. He had reunited with his lost sons, and he gave them each an astartes legion to continue the goal of a galaxy ruled by Man. All seemed perfect, with our ascension as the masters of the universe at hand. But it was not to be… The Horus Heresy…"

* * *

Vareesa was no stranger to tall tales. She had been to enough inns and other establishments of liquor where inebriated men had tried to impress her with their "supposed" accounts of bravery. Their stories ranged from the over glorification of slaying a kobold to the deification of themselves as heroes of valor for taking a backyard stroll. If the narrative she was hearing now was told by any other person, she would have immediately discarded it from her mind. But it didn't. It came from the giant. The man who strode through the demon-infested Blackfathom Deeps and emerged unscathed. His deeds she saw with her own eyes, and the blood elf knew what he said now was true. Is true.

Many others would have found Avarian's revelation to be startling. She did not. To her, it did not matter who ruled the universe or determined the fates of whole worlds. She only cared for her interests. As long as higher entities did not interfere with her well-being, they could do whatever they wished.

So instead of listening to the content of the god's tale, she focused on how he told it. Cracks in the armor that guarded his emotions were starting to appear, and the rogue was very keen to pry these cracks open. If she could catch a glimpse of the giant's inner most thoughts hidden behind that impassive mask he always wore, she would be much better equipped to ingratiate herself with him.

"Tell me, Lady Proudmoore. What is the meaning of betrayal?"

The occupants of the meeting room are shocked from their reverie. They were too intent on the story that unfolded before them.

"The loss of trust caused by a treacherous action," the Lady of Theramore replied almost instantly.

"Simple. Quaint. Your definition is based on an individual. One person. You, nor any other on this world, have any idea what the word really means. Betrayal."

Both of Avarian's gauntleted hands balled into tight fists.

"And betrayal it was. Horus, first found primarch, Warmaster, and favored son of the Emperor turned his back on humanity. The man who the Emperor trusted the most, spat on his oaths of loyalty and gave his allegiance to the dark gods. With him, were fully half of the Space Marine Legions. Hundreds of thousands of superhuman warriors who threw away their nobility, their virtue, for the promise of power. The galaxy was ignited again with the fires of war as brother fought brother on worlds freshly conquered. Those who remained loyal to the Father of Mankind found themselves forced back, planet after planet, as the traitors brought forth from the Warp daemonic horrors whose mere sight could drive men mad. This continued, until the forces of Chaos arrived at the birthplace of humanity. Terra."

Hate billowed from the giant like a hurricane. Vareesa was sure that the room shuddered in response to the god's odium.

"The traitors landed. Numbers beyond counting. Desecrating the ground with their tainted footsteps. Traitor astartes. Crazed heretics. Monstrous mutants. And titans. Chaos corrupted titans, whose once proud frames would be forever marred by warp induced mutations. The host of the fell powers threw themselves against the massive admantium gates of the Imperial Palace. There, the loyalist defenders fought like heroes reborn to stave off the encroaching hordes. They knew, and the traitors knew, the fate of mankind lay in the balance."

Avarian's gigantic frame quivered. His voice rose in pitch.

"The defenders were outnumbered. Vastly outnumbered. For every heretic flung screaming from the parapets, for every corrupted marine blasted apart by bolter shells, for every warp-blasted spawn that burned in the fires of perdition, more came. They crawled over the bodies of their slaughtered kin, and continued the assault against the palace walls, unmindful of the death that rained from above. The inevitable happened. A breach was made. And through it, poured the gibbering, mad hordes of Chaos. The inner citadel was turned into a pocket-marked battlefield. Where once beautiful gardens of flora thrived, now in their place were the tangled bodies of traitor and loyalist alike, whose commingling life fluids drowned the plants in pools of blood. Where once proud statues of marble stood, now in their place were nothing but ruined debris, scattered by weapon fire. Where once a glorious bastion of humanity existed, now in its place was a despoiled castle of pain and misery, where the daemon and the heretic chased down those who remained pure of heart. Humanity was at its darkest hour."

The god's voice reached a crescendo, fueled by rage and pain.

"Horus, blasphemer that he was, gloated from his colossal flagship. In his arrogance, he powered down the void shields, in one last act of defiance to his father. His pride would prove to be his downfall. The Emperor and his finest warriors teleported onto the former Warmaster's command bridge, taking advantage of the Arch-Heretic's lapse in judgment, and intent on slaying the one who had cost so many lives. Horus was no fool. Using the powers of warp sorcery, he interfered and displaced the loyalists into separate areas in the vast caverns of his spaceship. There, they braved horrors unimaginable to challenge the Great Betrayer. Sanguinius, primarch of the Blood Angels, beloved by all, was first to reach Horus. They were once close brothers, fellow gods among men whose trust in each other transcended all. But no longer. Horus butchered his brother, and cast him aside. The Emperor arrived, scant seconds too late to prevent his son's death. The Father of Mankind saw Sanguinius's broken form stretched at the former Warmaster's feet. He wept. He begged Horus to stray from the path of darkness, of evil. His pleading was laughed at, unheeded. It was with a heavy heart that the Emperor readied his blade and prepared for his favored son's onslaught."

Avarian paused for breath. The silence that followed was quiet enough for a pin to be dropped and still be heard. The giant's white helm lowered a fraction, as though if trying to dredge up a hidden reservoir of strength. That lasted for less than a second. Those red baleful eye slits focused again on the ruler of Theramore, but seemed to encompass all in its scorching glare.

"It was a battle of gods. Orange flames leapt from the Emperor's sword as he clashed in battle with his first found son. Cackling warp energies sizzled from Horus's power claw as he surged forward to usurp his father. The Emperor should have won. Would have won. But he stayed his hand. Horus was his favorite son, and the Emperor could not bring himself to kill his own creation. The Great Betrayer had no such qualms. He struck at his father unmercifully, gouging great wounds and mortal injuries. The Savior of Humanity fell. His golden form crumpling to the ground as Horus emerged triumphant. At this moment, one of the Adeptus Custodes, one of the Emperor's own bodyguards, fought to the bridge. He saw his lord and liege lain low and defeated at the Arch-Heretic's hands. With a roar of fury, he charged Horus. The former Warmaster flayed him alive with naught but a passing glance. This brutal act did not go unnoticed. The Emperor was still alive, but barely. He saw this cursory act of brutality, and knew his son was forever lost to him. With his last vestiges of strength, the Father of Humanity speared a bolt of pure psychic energy into Horus's startled form. The first found primarch. The Warmaster of the Emperor's armies. The favored son of the Emperor. He was destroyed utterly."

The black clad giant sighed. It was a heaving, rumbling noise. Vareesa found herself drawn further to the man. She wished to alleviate his pain in some manner, though through what way she did not know. The rogue shook her head hastily. No, no. She would not allow herself to sympathize. That was a path towards weakness. She told herself she wanted to find a way to ease the god's pain only for her benefit.

"That wasn't the end. Not even close. Horus was dead, but his army of traitors still roamed free. It took years to cleanse them from our galaxy, years of more bloodshed, more lives lost. We eventually drove them into the Eye of Terror, where to this day they still reside, plotting their insidious revenge. Even worse, the Emperor was mortally wounded by Horus's treachery. He was close to death, his prodigious inner strength the only thing holding the scythe from its claim. The Father of Mankind would not allow his dream of a universe ruled by man to be destroyed. He ordered his frame to be seated on the Golden Throne, where the stasis machines built in could preserve his body so that he may forever guide our path. For ten thousand years the Emperor has existed in this terrible state, not alive yet not dead. He is the Carrion-Lord of Humanity, the Master of Mankind, whom we all owe our lives to. And for ten thousand years we have endured with him. For ten thousand years we have halted the advances of the alien towards our worlds, eager to manipulate our weakness. For ten thousand years we have battled against traitors in our midst, keen to offer our souls to their dark deities. For ten thousand years humanity has spat in the face of defeat, staying strong against the encroaching darkness. And we will continue to do so."

The god took a single step forward, the halls reverberating with the sound of metal on stone.

"There can be no tolerance, no weakness in this unforgiving galaxy. There can be no respite to the unending conflicts, for to falter is to die. It is with Faith in the Immortal Emperor and the blood of our enemies that ensures our survival. Forget the promise of peace and prosperity, the promise of acceptance and lenience. In this grim, dark reality, there is only war, and the laughter of thirsting gods."

* * *

Those last words were like a great bell of ill omen tolling its doom. Jaina shook at the thought of the giant's declaration. She wanted desperately to refuse this new knowledge. Most of her adult life she had worked to unite the opposing factions of the Horde and the Alliance, hoping her open ways would facilitate a treaty of some sorts. Now, this Avarian had strode into her city, and flung her aspirations out the window. She refused to believe humanity's destiny could be so narrow, so bleak. For the first time in her life, she regretted her thirst for learning.

The patter of running feet caused the young mage to look up. One of her Theramore guard sprinted into view from a side corridor. The young man did a double take at the sight of the god and almost tripped on a gaudily placed rug. Composing himself, the footman strode hastily towards Jaina, keeping a wide distance from the giant.

"Milady! Message from Orgrimmar!" The guard snapped a quick salute as he stopped in front of the regent of Theramore.

If Thrall risked a messenger this far out in Alliance territory, things must be dire indeed. Jaina grasped the letter and quickly scanned it with alert eyes. A groan of frustration escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry Lord Avarian, but it seems our meeting needs to be curtailed as of now. The Undercity has been claimed by Varimathras and the Burning Legion."


	16. The Horde and the Undercity

_Gogolu: Thank you!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Ahhh, but you see, it's that blind hatred that Chaos will take advantage of. To be precise, the ruinous powers do not corrupt based on evil, but more on human emotions such as hatred, ambition, and greed. Is Varian's hatred towards the Horde understandable? Yes. But it is often when one loses oneself in his or her emotions that they become truly vulnerable to the temptations Chaos offers._

_skipper 1337: During the Great Crusades, the space marine Legions had varying numbers. There was no set doctrine that stated a Legion had to have ten thousand marines, like the Codex Astartes dictates for a chapter. From Lexicanum for example, it stated that during the infamous Drop Site Massacre, the Raven Guard were reduced from 80,000 astartes to a paltry 3,000. It also makes sense if you think about the fact that the Ultramarines, the Legion with the most marines, were the ones that fathered over 75% the current chapters as compared to the other loyalist Legions, whose numbers were decimated by the Horus Heresy. Avarian at this point in time, could care less about the different species of elves inhabiting Azeroth. To him, no matter whether your eyes glitter blue or green, you're still a xeno! As much as one would think otherwise, calling the Emperor the Carrion Lord of Mankind isn't heretical at all. The emphasis here is on the Lord after "Carrion" which means that despite being a corpse, he is still the father of humanity, something that the Ecclesiarchy willingly accepts._

_Malleum: We'll see how Vareesa's emotions develop in later chapters!_

_Weapon-VII: Thank you! The Carrion Lord title isn't that much of an insult actually. A heretical insult would probably be on the lines of "the false Emperor" or something along those lines._

_ArcherReborn2: Thanks! The background story I've provided in chapter 15 is a brief description of what occurred during the Horus Heresy. It will be further expanded by the last 40k character I intend to introduce in later chapters._

_Granite69: It takes time to get rid of ten thousand years of hatred, no? To all extent and purposes, the story of the Imperium told from Avarian's viewpoint is the true version. You can find a lot about 40k background from a website called Lexicanum. Just type it into google and it should pop up._

_Mephisteron: Your wish is my command!_

_Deviate Fish: Hmmm… perhaps. Though someone else, someone a tad more zealous, will probably be telling said tale. If I was to compare both Archimonde and Kil'Jaeden, they would match in power to a greater daemon of Chaos. As with Sargeras, well, I've classified him as a Chaos deity slightly weaker if not on par with the four main idols as of now. You can't get more powerful than that. As for your other comments, well, I think your underestimating what a space marine can do! For example, you give an example of a warlock using spells of pain and fear. But you forget an astartes' body is genetically engineered to literally "feel no pain" and to know no fear. If I was to choose a caster that would be the most ineffective against a space marine, it would have to be a warlock. You also provide very good points about a mage polymorphing our hero. However, my argument is this: what space marine worth his salt would just sit there, and allow any caster to simply fire away at him? It takes roughly two seconds to get a polymorph spell out. It takes a considerable less time for a bolter round to find its target!_

_Grey Knight Stern: Lexicanum! The wiki for all things 40k!_

_Timewatch: World of Warcraft needs more grimdark imo! _

_Peanuckle: I too, am fan of the Ollanus Pious version. However, that version of the story doesn't make sense because in the fluff, the Emperor teleports with Rogal Dorn and Sanguinius along with his finest warriors to Horus's flagship. I doubt a mere guardsmen counts as one of the Emperor's best warriors. Dialogue regarding the Imperium will be expanded in later chapters! Vareesa is becoming a fan favorite eh? She too will be expanded upon in later chapters._

_Harbringer Delta: Ahhh, well, are you going to be the one to stand up against a nine foot tall, genetically engineered, superhuman and tell him the minor details in xeno and abhuman physiology? XD Abhumans are considered less pure than regular humans by pretty much the whole Imperium, so yes, he does detest them._

_Emperor chronicler: Jaina's position regarding the Horde and the Alliance is interesting, to say the least. How will she deal with Avarian's xenophobic ways? How will she respond to his grimdark ways? You'll have to find out by reading the next chapter, and the next one, and the next one after that!_

_Soulless reader: Thank you! You are right in your deduction!_

_Charles Bhepin: Thank you for your suggestion! I have incorporated it within the chapter with some minor changes! You bring up a very, very good point regarding Avarian's tale of the Imperium. He doesn't explain many things, nor does he try to expand on why events occurred. However, the reason for this, is that I want Avarian's POV to be strictly that of an astartes, who feels very vehemently about Horus's betrayal. As a result, he won't be keen on why Horus rebelled, but more focused on "what a bastard that Horus is" kind of thing. Azerothians insignificant? Would I ever? This may seem true in the beginning, but it will change, especially when our main character discovers a very important fact about Azeroth, which incidentally, will introduce our last 40k character into the story._

_Thank you everyone for the reviews! Please continue!  
_

Chapter 16

Angrathar the Wrathgate. A patch of barren wasteland that jutted with blackened spires of twisted metal. Gateway to Icecrown Citadel and the great evil that resided within. Now a place of cleansing fire and charred corpses. The Red Dragonflight had seen to that. With roaring breaths of flame they purged the surrounding area of the taint of the death plague the Forsaken had unleashed. Inadvertently, they also eradicated all traces of the brave warriors that had stood up to Arthas's tyranny. Sons of both the Alliance and the Horde whose valor that day would be forever marred by the treachery and betrayal of the undead.

Thrall shook his head slightly. The warchief of the Horde reminded himself that not all Forsaken had turned traitor. The proof he had seen himself. The remaining denizens of the Undercity had filed through the pathway entrance of Orgrimmar despondently, seeking sanctuary from their allies. Their lives had been nearly forfeit when they refused to join Putress in his allegiance to Varimathras and the Burning Legion. Even the Dark Lady, Sylvanas Windrunner herself, had almost been killed, caught by surprise by the sedition in her own ranks. The former ranger lord was currently stalking to and fro by the warchief, eager for revenge against the demons that had cost her so dear.

There was evidence that the Forsaken were still loyal, but the question was who would believe them? These former minions of the Scourge were accepted into ranks of the Horde only hesitantly, with many counselors outright protesting their induction. Their disagreements were not without merit. The Forsaken were mostly former residents of Lordaeron, and theoretically their loyalty still lay with the Alliance. That and what did the undead offer besides wretched warlocks and useless poison concoctions? Thrall had argued otherwise. The warchief had stated that the New Horde should be magnanimous and generous in its actions, to further distance themselves from their demonic roots. Sylvanas had come to them out of desperation, with no one else to turn to. It would be dishonorable to spurn these "free" undead and their offer of allegiance.

His persuasions won out in the end, though it was more because of his rank rather than the logic in his words.

The Forsaken had proved Thrall's statements to be correct at first. These former pawns of Arthas were quick to integrate themselves with the Horde, and many were their achievements. However, with the betrayal at Wrathgate now hanging over their heads, the Forsaken's accomplishments would be quickly forgotten as fresh fingers of blame pointed in their direction.

The orc chieftain gave a deep rumbling sigh. The Horde could not afford to fracture. Not now. Not with the Scourge in Northrend and the Burning Legion in the Outlands, both intent on the conquest of Azeroth.

"We are ready… warchief."

The voice is heavy with disdain.

Garrosh Hellscream, overlord of the Warsong Offensive, stomped moodily forward. Behind him followed a host of Kor'kron Guard, plated armor covering their muscular frames.

Thrall felt the impulse to sigh again, but speedily quashed it. The son of Grom Hellscream had displayed so much promise during their first meeting in Nagrand. Garrosh had been dejected then, pessimistic almost, over the fate of his father and his own destiny. He had believed he too would follow in Grom's footsteps, corrupted by the lust for power and the desire to shed blood. The warchief of the Horde had shown him otherwise. Thrall told the tale of the sacrifice made by the chieftan of the Warsong Clan, and how Grom had lifted the blood curse of Mannoroth from the orcs. Garrosh had been overjoyed then, seeing his father's redemption as his own.

How quickly time changes an individual, Thrall mused. Garrosh was no longer the bright-eyed young orc that had listened to the warchief's tale years before. He now tread the same path as Grom once did, a journey of self-aggrandizement and self-fulfillment. He led the Warsong Clan in forays against the Alliance, despite the tenuous treaty of peace that was signed with the end of Third War. The continued deforestation of Ashenvale, the swift and bloody raids against human caravans, these were the machinations of Garrosh, and Thrall was quick to denounce them.

Not that it mattered. The orcs had always been a war-like race, even before the Burning Legion's corruption. The new shamanistic ways were not received fondly by all, and a good number of the Horde wished for a return of the glory days of the First and Second Wars. This was one of two reasons why Thrall could not ostracize Garrosh, at least publically. The second reason was more of a personal matter. The son of Grom Hellscream had challenged the warchief to a duel of honor, with the leadership of the Horde as the stakes. The resulting battle had gone badly for Thrall, with Garrosh almost defeating the orc chieftain. Their duel was interrupted however, with the arrival of the Herald of the Lich King, who began an immediate assault on Orgrimmar with dozens of mighty frost wyrms. This unwelcome attack was ironically what saved Thrall's position as leader of the Horde.

Thrall shook the thoughts away from his mind. This was not the time for such reflections. He had a battle to fight and vengeance to administer.

"Warchief." Sylvanas inclined her cowl-covered head towards a rapidly opening mage portal.

The chieftain of the Horde recognized the fluidly moving rift of magic to be the work of Jaina Proudmoore, one of the few humans he trusted. Yet, there was something different about this portal. It was rather large to begin with, much larger for a person to fit through. Thrall was puzzled. His good friend usually did not waste her mana on such a simple incantation. The magical gateway was also materializing a significant space away from the gathered Horde members. Strange. His good friend usually did not enjoy long distance travel either.

A black machine of bulky design surged from the shifting portal, trailing twin plumes of azure fire.

* * *

Jaina Proudmoore wasn't the one to usually curse out loud. She was the ruler of a city, and had to set certain examples for her people. Etiquette and decorum were expected of her, and to this day the regent of Theramore had not failed her public's belief in her. To this day, being the key word here.

The young mage issued a string of oaths that would have made an ogre blush.

In a different setting, Jaina would have probably chided herself immediately for the foul words that spewed from her mouth. However, the mage's mind was elsewhere, namely on a certain giant who had insisted on coming along despite her reservations.

That giant was, as of now, speeding towards the gathered warriors of the Horde in his strange vehicle, with no hint of stopping. The Lady of Theramore went through a number of possible scenarios that might happen as a result. One, he could continue the motion of his machine, and reduce anyone in his way into a pile of unfortunate mush. Two, he could activate the very intimidating, twin-barreled cannons on the belly of his craft which would certainly ruin the assembled Horde's parade. Three, he could trigger the even larger, bulkier gun attached to the front of his speeder's passenger compartment, which would probably make a very big, bloody mess of things. Four, he could fire both the cannons and the gun together, the result being too forbidding for Jaina to think about. Or five, the god could abruptly halt his vehicle, offer a pleasant greeting, and discuss the weather over a pot of fine tea.

Judging from Avarian's recent description of humanity's history, scenario number five was as about likely to happen as an orc ballerina dancing in a pink tutu… with Illidan clapping along in accompaniment… with two murlocs enacting a scene from Romulo and Julianne… with a death knight audience sobbing along with the act… Jaina could go on, but in short, it was pretty much impossible. Still, one could hope, right?

The young mage concentrated on a patch of ground halfway between her and the Horde. In a flash of magical tendrils, she was gone, teleported to her designated spot with recommendable accuracy. The enchantment was known as "blink" and one of the fundamental spells that all magic users learned in their studies.

Jaina briefly wondered if there was magic in the giant's "Imperium".

Another second of concentration and she materialized by the side of the god's hulking machine. Just in time too. Avarian had clambered off and was glaring at the Horde, at the orcs in particular, with what could only be described as murderous intent. The giant seemed to forget about the passengers he had brought with him in the forms of the blood elf and the night elf, whom for the moment seemed to be content staying where they were, fastened in by a weird belt contraption to the uncomfortable-looking seats of the vehicle.

"Jaina. It is good to see you again. Though I am rather surprised you brought company," Thrall, warchief of the Horde, nodded towards her in greetings.

The young mage was about to reply when the metallic, rasping voice of the giant cut her off.

"As I am surprised to see you can form coherent sentences in Gothic, greenskin."

Jaina groaned inwardly. Not a good start to negotiations.

"What sort of Alliance trickery is this?" A ruddy-colored orc spat besides Thrall. The ruler of Theramore knew him only too well as Garrosh Hellscream, the one who had so neatly escalated the mounting tensions between the two factions with his brash assaults on Alliance territory.

"Calm yourself Garrosh. It would do us no good if we are rash in our actions." The warchief raised a mailed hand in a placating manner.

"Rash? Our ancestors forged their way to glory with an axe in their hand and a battle cry on their lips! What are we if not rash?!? You cannot deny this path, Thrall, no matter how you may want to!"

The young mage was stunned at this outburst. Thrall usually kept the son of Grom Hellscream mollified. Insubordination among the Horde's ranks was something not to be tolerated. If Garrosh could publically challenge the warchief, it meant there was an ongoing usurpation of power, which did not bode well for future Alliance-Horde relations.

"Infighting among orks is to be expected, for they are foul and despicable things, unworthy in the Emperor's eyes." Avarian interrupted, his unsurprised demeanor reminding Jaina of someone quoting a line from a book.

Garrosh took a threatening step forward, hands resting on the twin axes holstered at his belt.

"Watch your tongue Alliance scum! You humans are worthless and weak, as well---Grrrk!?!"

The giant moved fast. Almost too fast to see. One second he was still and motionless, his stature giving off waves of contempt. The next second a massive plated fist hammered into Garrosh's face with a resounding crack, courtesy of the god. The chieftain of the Warsong Clan was propelled backwards by the tremendous force, sailing into the lines of the assembled Kor'kron Guard, who scrambled to break his fall.

Jaina had prayed to the Light for such an event not to occur. She had evidently not prayed hard enough.

"Damn it! What are you doing?" the young mage hissed through clenched teeth.

"The greenskin insulted humanity." The reply she got was simple. It did not alleviate her frustration at all.

"I thought we had a compromise! You weren't supposed to harm any member of the Horde! You agreed to this Avarian!"

"I remember agreeing to not cleanse the xenos outright. I have abided by my oath. I did not kill the ork. Merely incapacitated it."

The ruler of Theramore shot a quick glance towards Garrosh's sagging form, held upright by two Kor'kron warriors. The giant had done more than "incapacitate" the orc. He had knocked him out cold.

Jaina tried hard to suppress the throbbing headache that was beginning to from in her brain. Avarian was threatening to undo everything she had worked so hard to achieve. He had struck a ranking leader of the Horde, on the pretext of being slighted, never mind the fact that it was he who had insulted them first. Such an action could be an excuse for a renewal in hostilities between the Alliance and the Horde.

The only thing that was beneficial to the situation was that the Forsaken refugees were tucked safely away within Orgrimmar. If the giant saw them, Jaina seriously doubted a mere punch would have sufficed from such a hateful being. Of course, this left them all in an uncomfortable predicament. Horde soldiers were gathering around Avarian, clenching an assortment of unpleasant weapons, ready to inflict retribution for Garrosh's fate. To his credit, the god did not falter in the slightest; the only movement he betrayed was a gauntleted hand clenching the handle grip of the unwieldy looking gun strapped to his hip. An uncomfortable predicament indeed.

The Light that had deserted her so readily when the giant punched the chief of the Warsong Clan came back now, with a bouquet of roses and a bag of chocolates to make amends.

"Avarian? Your name is Avarian?" one of the Kor'kron orcs snapped the visor of his horned helm up, revealing a weathered, aged face.

The giant refused to answer, and Jaina hastened to reply for him, lest the god change his mind and issued more derogatory comments from his mouth.

"He is. And you are?"

"Karduk Bloodfist."

"And how do you know him?

The orc grunted.

"My worthless son was one of those taken captive by the Twilight Hammer cultists at Blackfathom Deeps. His useless hide was saved by what he described as a metal colossus called Avarian."

The Lady of Theramore felt her view of the giant rise a bit. Judging from the man's sketchy past, she had assumed he would have simply killed the Horde prisoners of war and called it a day. Perhaps there were some positive traits in the god that she could work with?

"I owe you a debt of honor, giant. As well as a debt of gratitude. If my son died in those caverns, I wouldn't have been able to strangle him with my own two hands."

Karduk was joking, right? You never knew with orcs.

* * *

The descent would have killed a normal man. My power armor soaks up the impact and shrugs it off like it was nothing. I do, however, displace a considerable amount of brick and mortar with my fall.

Drips of gelatinous fluid stream down my suit, pooling in small puddles at my feet. I had to tread waist deep in filthy, green sewer water to get to the entrance of this Undercity. The ancient machine spirit that resided within my armor would need to be appeased later for this defilement. The ork warboss, Thrall, had decided to call on a "water spirit" to sweep away the polluted liquid. Such weakness in xenos was to be expected. Always relying on their false religions to save them. Our faith in the Emperor was different. We served Him through our actions, not the reverse.

I proceeded forward, boltgun at the ready.

Puzzled thoughts drift into my brain. The greenskins I've just met seem different from the ones I've fought countless times. They are smaller for one, though still much larger than the diminutive gretchin that are used as slave labor among the ork hierarchy. They also seem to form sentences lucidly, a far cry from the butchering of our language whenever the usual swinetusk is to be found. The thing that surprised me the most, galled me the most, was the one called Karduk, who spoke of honor as if though they possessed it.

Orks had no honor. Their species were an anathema to the word and the meaning. Foul, craven beasts, they attacked worlds and slaughtered innocents to sate their simple minded battle-lust. They looted the weapons of the dead, tore the armor off of the recently deceased, and hacked apart venerable war machines so they could cobble up their own. Orks were scum. Filth that deserved nothing more than extinction.

I stow away my contemplations for later when my visor display spots my first enemy.

Its skin is tinged red with mutation, body half covered by blackened armor twisted into spike-like shapes. A head of diminutive proportions placed atop a thick neck turns at my approach. Tiny, beady eyes glare at me with primal loathing. In its clawed hands is a wicked looking polearm, blade serrated and sharpened to a killing edge.

A daemon of the warp, a minion of the Burning Legion.

My bolter thunders in fury at the sight of such an abomination. Mass-reactive shells rip into the thing's chest, and reduce its tainted form into a visceral mist of blood and gore.

I step past the still twitching corpse without a backwards glance.

An immense circular room greets my advance as I stomp from the passageway. I note the raised platform in the center, sustained by chains of rusted iron and supported by a thick pillar of stone. A river of green, brackish water, similar to the one I just waded through, flows swiftly in a concentric canal at the bottom. To me, these observations are of no interest. What does interest me is the multitude of daemons crowding the area.

My finger depresses the trigger of my weapon rapidly. Death comes for them, and I am the harbinger of their demise.

Muscular bodies seething with corruption explode wetly as the bolter storm smashes into them. Daemons bellow in agony as their foul existence is terminated by pinpoint shots to their vital areas. One thrashes wildly at its ruined throat, mutilated by a detonating round, gasping at the air that would not come. Another slumps back, face half gone from a shell gone off-center. Behind its drooping corpse is a patch of congealed fluid stuck to the wall, the remnants of its brain shredded into mincemeat. Two more are knocked screaming off the center dais, their flailing forms trailing blood as they fall.

A boltgun magazine contains thirty-two shells. I've killed twenty-five Legion and wounded three more in a span of three seconds. Twenty-six as the daemon with the destroyed throat finally expires. Unacceptable. I have wasted two valuable rounds. Even more if the earlier, overwhelming burst against a solitary daemon is to be considered. Such a squander of ammunition would have brought me censure from my sergeant. I strive to do better as practiced hands swiftly detach the empty clip and jam in another.

The warp filth, for their part, finally acknowledge my presence. Gutteral shouts of challenge assail my ears, terrible roars that would have struck fear in mortal men. But I am not a mere man. I am a space marine, created by the Emperor to fight humanity's wars on a thousand battlefields. Fear, to me, was an unknown emotion, for I could not feel it.

The daemons rush forward, climbing stairways rapidly in their maddened charge.

I welcome them with a thundering salvo from my bolter.

A misshapen form pitches back, torso erupting into a shower of red gore. Its collapse hampers the advance of a trio of its heretical brethren. I place accurate head shots amid their struggling forms and purge three more warp scum from the galaxy.

I swivel on my feet to find a group flanking me from behind, aided by the circular platform I am on. Muzzle flashes, bright and angry, heralds their doom. Legion are cast aside by the momentous force of exploding shells, their bodies ruptured and broken. One with a crested helm bellows in panic as it tries to scoop back a twitching pile of intestines back into its split belly. Another skids in the coagulating entails, eliciting a shriek of pain from its cohort. The daemon falls heavily, cracking its small head against the stone tiled floor. A round from my boltgun ensures that it will never get up again.

They are closing in around me now, in all directions. Poleaxes, two-handed swords, and a variety of other curved melee weapons raised high to strike. I pull the chainsword from its rest at my hip. I thumb down the activation stud, and a mechanical purr greets me in response.

I fire the last few rounds from my bolter, one-handed. At longer distances, my accuracy would have been diminished by such an act. But these daemons are too close for me to miss. Several fall back against the swarming multitude, fountaining polluted blood as their bodies suffer under the vicious barrage.

The first warp filth that manages to get into striking range is met with a horizontal sweep of my chainblade. The rapidly churning teeth lacerates a deep ragged wound against the daemon's chest, raising a shriek of agony from its lipless mouth. My next blow arcs downward, bisecting a monstrosity messily from clavicle to groin. Its corpse falls limply into two symmetric parts, spilling torn organs and frothing viscera. My bolter hand does not stay idle. It lashes outward in a brutal swing, catching the leering face of a Legion wielding a heavy halberd. The immense force crushes the aberration's cheek with sickening ease. It drops to the ground, mewing piteously through a ruined jaw. I break its neck with a precisely placed stomp.

The whoosh of displaced air sounds from behind me. I grunt as the edged blade of a polearm connects with my pauldron, extracting a shower of sparks. I drag my chainsword across the throat of the daemon to the immediate front of me, the shrieking blades decapitating the snarling monster and sending its head spiraling in midair. Thick blood splatters onto my faceplate. Continuing the motion, I reverse the stroke of my weapon and slam it back into the assailant at my rear. An undulating wail of anguish rewards my act. I twist the handle of my blade, further increasing the mortal damage already inflicted. In a fluid movement, I wrench my embedded chainblade from its victim and slash upwards, whirring teeth ripping deeply into another Legion's abdomen. I kick its spasming body back into its compatriots, delaying them their chance to assault me. My bolter hand swings out again, this time backwards, and smashes into the head of a another warp filth trying to sneak up on me. It manages a keening cry before its visage meets unyielding stone wall. I ignore the bone-shattering crunch that results.

There is a lull in the combat. The daemons step back, panting heavily. They mob me in the front and crowd me in the back. Their eyes dart warily, trying to discern my weakness. I have none. I charge forward, my power armored bulk ramming aside one of the twisted creatures and sending it screaming from the raised platform. My chainsword screeches as it descends, eager to feast on unprotected flesh. My lips part as a battle cry issues from my suit's vox-speakers.

"For the Emperor!"

* * *

**Author's Note: At this point and time, some of you might be wondering why in the Emperor's underpants, has Avarian not begun a cleansing spree? What keeps him from headbutting the closest xeno through a brick wall? Indeed, who is the man behind the power armor? What kind of character is Avarian? How did he become one of the mightiest champions of humanity? Such questions will all be answered in time, through the furious typing of my hurting hands and the rapid updates of new chapters!**


	17. In the Bowels of the Undercity

**Author's Note: When playing around with my account settings, I noticed that the anonymous reviews were turned off. I was sure when I first posted this story, I had turned it on. In any case, anyone can review now.**

_Imperialguardsmen: A lot of people have protested my choice of Varian Wrynn as the one to fall to Chaos. As of now, whether the king of Stormwind dies, I have not decided for sure. I do know, however, that something very, very drastic will occur to the humans living in Stormwind. So, if I can preserve Varian's life, I will, but only if it helps the plot. _

_Xynth: Ahhh, Night Lords… The Legion of Batmen gone wrong… Heh heh, I kid. I agree with your thoughts regarding the amount of violence in this fanfics. What many authors tend to forget, is the "war" part in World of Warcraft. Can there be a place for romance and happiness? Absolutely. But one must remember that the world Blizzard has painted is a world fraught with danger!_

_Ranger24: Eh, I don't know. In Gabriel Angelos's case, you never really know why he is tolerant. (Know that I haven't read any of the Dawn of War novels besides the first one, so if I'm wrong on my assertion, it's not my fault!) In Avarian's case, you and some Azerothians will see why the main character is lenient in a few pivotal chapters later on._

_Dakaath: Thank you! In the Black Library novel, Salamander, the book mentions that a crate of bolter ammo can contain thousands of clips, so our hero may be a tad wasteful! XD _

_Emperor chronicler: The end of Varimathras will be in the next chapter!_

_Harbringer Delta: I wouldn't argue with a space marine period!_

_Mephisteron: Soon my friend, soon!_

_Timewatch: Currently one man. When this fic is nearing its end, the crusade with probably be many, many more times than that!_

_Granite69: Thanks!_

_Grey Knight Stern: Thank you!_

_Charles Bhepin: You once again provide many great criticisms. I hope I can provide an answer for them all! Is Avarian a dick? Absolutely. He's a space marine, and the Angels of Death are not known for their humility. So why hasn't the night elves done anything about it? I like to think of it this way. If your homeland was being invaded by demons, your people being slaughtered, you wouldn't necessarily care the hero that saved you was a little bit rude. Oh certainly, he's a dick, but dammit, the guy just saved an entire town from being butchered and then volunteered to cleanse a hellhole filled with your worst enemies. I believe that the kaldorei would be more than willing to gloss over a few of Avarian's shortcomings in lieu of that fact. Regarding the level of opposition the main character has faced, the simple fact is he hasn't faced any major challenges yet. Indeed, how will our hero measure up to the plague giants created by the Scourge? Or the gargantuan machine that is a fel reaver? Of course, these creatures are also at the opposite end of the spectrum in terms of difficulty. Know however, that though he appears to at first, Avarian will not god-mode everything. In fact, he will be very close to death in at least two circumstances in this story. You also make a very good point regarding how some people will take offense to Avarian's way of treating them. I will illustrate this very soon, with the appearance of a very hot headed king we all know and love. With the soon to be included orc POV, I also hope to input a different view of Avarian through a member of the Horde's eyes, which will deny the notion that everyone fears him. In regards to no one wanting to help our hero, Avarian is going to find assistance in a very, very zealous faction with a knack to wear lots of red._

_Vanbor the Fire Mage: Thanks!_

_Soulless Reader: Here is the update!_

Chapter 17

Thunderous booms echoed from the dark depths of the Undercity. Each howling roar was accompanied by an equally loud shriek of pain. Together, they formed a cacophony of war that many of the Kor'kron Guard found to be irresistible. Mailed fists clenched tightly on the hafts of battle axes, eager for combat to be joined. Muscles hidden underneath layers of plate flexed involuntarily, anxious to be used in the sweaty din of battle. Faces covered by sneering war helms twisted into brutish grins, keen on the bloodshed that awaited them.

Thrall grunted to himself. War was an integral part of orc society. There was no changing that. The Burning Legion had utilized this lust for battle to their benefit, corrupting the once shamanistic orcs with the promise of power, turning them into mad savages intent only on wanton carnage. The grandeur of the First and Second Wars that Garrosh had been so enthusiastic to replicate were the result of this taint. The countless lives lost, both Alliance and Horde. The innumerable towns and cities destroyed in random acts of aggression. No… there was no glory in such actions, only eternal damnation.

"Warchief. It would appear that Varimathras has destroyed the elevators in an attempt to halt our attack," Sylvanas's harsh voice reverberated amid the dusty halls of Lordaeron's former throne room.

"The attack has already begun, though not started by us," replied the orc chieftan, wincing slightly as a new sound drifted up from the underground city. This noise was a shrill, mechanical whir, not unlike those caused by the shredder machines the goblins used to harvest lumber.

"Indeed, though it vexes me to have a lackey of the Alliance stumbling about my beautiful abode."

Judging from the clamor of battle emanating below their feet, the strange being called Avarian was doing far more than just "stumbling about".

"Jaina has placed her trust in him. I will as well for the time being," the warchief replied, which was true to a certain extent. The giant's temperament after his conflict with Garrosh had been surprisingly restrained. Though there was the occasional glance of revulsion speared towards the assembled Horde, he had remained still and silent through the rest of the exchange. This Avarian had a modicum of self-discipline, something that could not be said for the rest of the Alliance. Thrall could definitely respect that.

"Of course warchief," the Dark Lady inclined her cowled head towards him before stalking away towards one of the three entrances to the secretive lair of the Forsaken. Thrall followed, hefting his warhammer over a muscular shoulder and leading his Kor'kron warriors to whatever hell waited for them below.

* * *

"Every strike of my blade is an extolment to His virtue!"

My chainsword shrieks in elation as it buries deep into daemon flesh. Churning monomolecular teeth shred meat and cleave bone. I leave the warp filth in two flopping pieces.

"Every foe slain is an offering to His alter!"

A Legion roars in agony as I drag my weapon across its taut belly. The chainblade's whirring motions eviscerates the monster, sending bloodied guts and viscera spewing from the rapidly expanding wound. The hand holding my boltgun batters away the mortally injured daemon, sending it plummeting from the raised dais.

"Every victory gained is a tribute to His glory!"

I plunge my chainsword into the bared chest of a warp spawn. A death rattle escapes from the aberration's mouth as the tip of my weapon explodes from its back in an eruption of blood. I flick my wrist sideways, allowing the corpse to slither off and drop limply at my feet.

Once again, the mass of the monstrosities pull back, their momentum expended. They are remarkably brave for minions of the ruinous powers. They do not attempt to flee, though whether it is through actual courage or the miniscule size of their brains preventing them from running, I do not know. Four times they have charged me, only to be thrown back, beaten and bloodied. Four times they have rushed me, only to be pushed back, their numbers dwindling as every stroke of my sword sends another screaming back to the Warp. Four times. There won't be a fifth.

My chainsword descends in a lethal arc as I surge forward, spitting out chunks of caught flesh. A raised arm moves upwards to block my strike. I laugh at the pitiful attempt. The shrill keening of the chainblade turns at once into a gurgling howl as it bites deep into the limb. There is little resistance. The daemon registers a flicker of pained surprise at the sudden amputation before the continued motion of my weapon cleaves its skull in two.

My weapon does not halt to savor its triumph. Another swing, this time horizontal, follows swiftly. A Legion sputters in stupor as the revving teeth inflict a fatal gash to its throat. Clawed hands swipe wildly at its ruined neck, desperate to halt the gush of life fluids that disgorges forth from the gaping cut. It falls to its knees. Slow exsanguination is its fate.

I continue my push forward, sword sweeping in wide arcs. Those that are not quick enough to fall back before my onslaught are butchered, their torn bodies littering the floor behind my advance.

* * *

Thrall had been to the Undercity once in his life. It had been a ceremonial thing, the official induction of the Forsaken into the Horde, and the warchief had to be there to affirm the validity of the event. The undead's underground dwelling had an eerie feeling to it then, and Thrall had been only too glad when the formal procedure ended. It was a place that one did not forget easily.

It came as a surprise then, when the orc chieftan and his war party emerged from one of the Undercity's many corridors, they were greeted with a very different view from memory.

The place resembled a charnel house. Bodies with holes the size of a tauren's fist lay strewn in their immediate vicinity, ruptured forms leaking rivers of blood onto the cobbled floor. Thrall needed only a single look to know what these corpses once belonged to. Felguard. The basic foot soldiers of the Burning Legion. Formerly of the mo'arg species. Warped into muscular forms that only thirsted for bloodshed. They were the twisted reminders of what the orcs had been in the past. The willing pawns of Sargeras.

Said servants of the Legion were obviously dead, their corpses stretched to impossible angles as though if some massive force had struck them. They weren't the only ones. A trail of massacred demons littered from the initial pile to almost half way around the circular platform. Seeping ichor dripped slowly downwards into the canals filled with green, acidic water, coloring it a ruddy brown.

A shout of panic caught the warchief's attention. A felguard was struggling, flailing madly at some unseen aggressor, its back turned towards them… and it was hovering in midair? Upon closer inspection, Thrall could see the ugly blunt end of some black construct jutting out from the demon's back. The strange weapon was supporting the mo'arg's weight, keeping its madly kicking legs from touching ground.

A soft mechanical whine drifted into the warchief's ears. The black metal thing had what looked like sharpened teeth adorning its frame. And they were slowly churning.

That almost titillating purr abruptly stopped. It is replaced by a shrill screech of terrible magnitude.

The felguard's body convulsed in a horrendous parody of fluid movement, jerking and shuddering like a puppeteer's creation gone mad. The tip of the metal weapon slid swiftly upwards, hewing through the demon's body with nauseating ease. No longer supported, the corrupted mo'arg landed heavily on its bottom, revealing the hulking form of the giant. The fountain of blood that followed hid him from view once again.

"Impressive." The Dark Lady's whispered praise caused Thrall to shiver slightly at its hidden implications.

The giant glared at them once, tear shaped visors winking evilly, before he dropped from the circular dais and landed heavily in a crater of his own making. Without a backwards glance, Avarian turned to the nearest looming entrance into the one of the quarters of the Undercity, and disappeared into its yawning maw.

"Not a fan of company, I see," commented the orc chieftan wryly.

Two slight figures bounded past Thrall, graceful and lithe. The blood elf and the night elf. The warchief had forgotten they were there. The sin'dorei launched herself elegantly into the air, flipping aerobically before landing daintily on two feet. Her movements were clearly that of a practiced rogue. The kaldorei did not repeat her distant kin's flashy action, and instead simply jumped down. The armor she wore signified she was a sentinel, and a higher ranking one at that. Both headed for the same tunnel the giant had entered.

A faint rustle of armor caused Thrall to look back. One of his Kor'kron Guard had taken a step forward, obviously wanting to follow the elves. It was Karduk Bloodfist. The chieftan of the Horde smiled slightly. Karduk was one of the oldest orcs in his personal bodyguard, a veteran of all three wars that were waged on Azeroth. He was a close friend to Overlord Saurfang and shared the same liberal views of the New Horde, having witnessed the horrors the demonic taint had brought on the orc race firsthand. Thrall secretly wished all of his people were of the same caliber as Karduk.

"Warchief… I…" the grizzled orc started guiltily.

"No need to explain old friend. You are oath bound to him now. Show this human the meaning of orc honor."

"Gladly, warchief," Karduk's helmeted head nodded in appreciation. The former Kor'kron warrior leapt after the running elves with a battle cry on his lips.

"Lok'tar ogar!"

* * *

The opposition has changed. No longer are my enemies' only muscular forms of brute strength. Within their ranks are the reverse kneed, horned daemons I have faced at Astranaar. Wrathguard. Some are taller than me by a head, wielding long poleaxes in both hands with unnatural strength. They are tougher than their daemonic brethren I have just slaughtered my way through.

Though not by much.

My bolter roars with staccato fire, stitching a line of bloody craters among the mass of daemons. My targets are the wrathguard, though with the multitude of lesser Legion crowding them, my aim is more than once compromised. Still, I am not fastidious in what type of warp scum I kill. As long as they die.

My chainsword screeches in approval at my thoughts. It spears a daemon through the abdomen, making a gory mess of the aberration's stomach and intestines. In the same motion my other hand brings my boltgun down in a vicious swing, shattering the minuscule skull of another monster into splintered fragments of bone. I pull my blade free, and lash out again, catching a warp filth in the side. The churning spikes eagerly buries into unprotected flesh, inflicting a wide gash bubbling with lifeblood. I kick the screaming daemon away from me, its wounded body reeling before being pummeled down by its own uncaring kin in their haste to attack me.

A wrathguard dashes forward, halberds swinging in long loping patterns. A war cry emits from its tainted orifice, spewing forth some form of foul, unearthly language. I ram the barrel of my bolter into its opened jaws and halt its dark words with a squeeze of the trigger. A lesser Legion falters as the body of its greater kin staggers drunkenly back, headless. My shrieking chainblade cleaves it in twain as a punishment for its hesitation.

Three arrows, loosed in rapid succession, speed past my shoulder guard. A trio of daemons surging forward are spun back, feathered shafts sunk deep into their twisted forms. A thrown dirk follows, twirling tip over pommel before embedding into the forehead of a wrathguard. Red, bloodshot eyes flicker in surprise and swivel up to see the length of metal languishing indolently in the center of its brow before they finally dim with recognition. The warp filth topples over, face first.

I hazard a glance backwards. I am greeted with the sight of both Keina and Vareesa leaping forward, covering the distance between them and me in long strides. I note the look of worry pasted on the night elf's face as well as the rapturous expression on the blood elf. I sneer behind the cold ceramite of my helm. I did not need the kaldorei's weakness or the sindorei's rashness to interfere with my battles.

My sneering visage turns into a wrathful countenance of hatred as my visor focuses on the being trailing the two xenos. Clad in black plate, embroidered with bronze, the powerful form wields a sinister looking axe with a spiked butt in one hand and a roundish shield of archaic design in the other. A full faced helm with two forward pointing horns hides its features except for the thin eye slit that betrays coal colored pupils. Two plaits of snow white hair flutters wildly behind the swiftly nearing figure, illuminating that the warrior is of significant age.

It is an ork. A savage, murderous beast of little intelligence. How many good Imperial servants have fallen to these foul aliens and their cruel rampages? The hand gripping my bolter twitches in agitation. The temptation to exterminate the greenskin nags at me irritably, and I find my gauntlet rising upwards to fire a killing shot. I am interrupted by the dull silver blur of a sword swinging towards my chest. I parry the blow and return it, decapitating the attacking Legion in a spurt of red ichor.

I chastise myself for my vacillation in combat. Astartes do not contemplate the nature of our foes, we simply kill them. The minions of the ruinous powers are my chief concern. The ork can wait its turn to be cleansed.

My chainsword whirrs with renewed vigor at my thoughts. It descends on the nearest daemon with an ear-splitting wail of gnashing serrated teeth.

* * *

Vareesa had a strong distaste for close quarters combat. It wasn't that she wasn't good at it, quite the contrary; she excelled in any type of face to face fighting, where her lethally placed daggers could inflict horrendous wounds on her foes. No, she disliked such forms of warfare for the potential harm that could befall her. The blood elf preferred to keep a clear view of her battles, minimizing the risk to her own health and maximizing the damage she could deal to others. In short, circumstances where she was in absolute control. After all, it took just one unforeseen blow to end her life, and in the thick of a raging melee, such blows were common.

The rogue sprinted forward, curved daggers dripping with virulent poisons.

If this was any other melee, the sindorei would have stayed a long ways off and observed, maybe even showed herself at the battle's end, where she could easily dispatch the weakened combatants. However, this was not a normal battle in any shape and form.

Avarian was a whirlwind of destruction, a storm of fury that the Burning Legion could not overcome. Any demon that stepped into his striking range, whether foolish or courageous, was hacked apart brutally by the god's shrieking sword. Any demon that loitered in the back, whether cowardly or intelligent, was picked off by the giant's roaring gun. They could not defeat this strange metal clad warrior, and was forced to give ground slowly, with nothing to show for except the broken corpses of their brethren.

This was more akin to slaughter, to butchery, and the blood elf was eager to revel in it.

A felguard with its back turned felt a curious, tingling sensation itching from its arm. The demon raised the bothered limb questioningly, the heat of battle temporarily forgotten. It was a very shallow cut, having just barely penetrated skin. Yet, said arm felt incredibly heavy. Surely there was a reason? The felguard was still pondering this simple question when its heart stopped beating.

Vareesa weaved past the drooping body elegantly. Her concocted venoms had enough power to kill a man sized creature within seconds. All that was required was a mere injection into the bloodstream.

The rogue expertly pricked another Legion with her dagger, smirking confidently as the demon didn't even acknowledge her presence. The corrupted mo'arg were too simple-minded to notice anything trivial. Their attention was solely focused on the giant wreaking havoc in their midst, and hence paid no heed to the shifting form of the sin'dorei.

Their mistake and her gain.

The felguard quivered uncontrollably as the poison sped through its veins, the corrosive material leaving a path of devastation among its innards. It collapsed, foaming at the mouth. Vareesa stepped over the spasming demon, ignoring its pain induced throes.

The blood elf shot a quick glance at her surroundings. The giant was still carving a swathe through the Legion, diminishing their numbers rapidly with gun and blade. The kaldorei was hanging a ways back, sniping at the crowded demons with her bow. The comparison of lethality between the night elf's weapon and Avarian's was laughable at best. But in a situation like this, where the sentinel captain could fire into the crowded mass of demons with impunity, she proved to be invaluable. As though if to emphasize the point, a wrathguard fell back roaring, a feathered shaft quivering in its left eye socket.

A bellowed challenge rang in her ears, and the rogue turned to see a black clad form barreling towards the ensuing melee. One of warchief Thrall's Kor'kron Guard. The seasoned orc crashed into the exposed flank of the already engaged demons, war axe descending in a deadly arc. Vareesa smiled. If the orc wanted to meet a glorious end, who was she to stop him? Besides, he was one more body between herself and the Legion.

The smile abruptly vanished as the rogue's gaze fixated on an advancing demon, taller than the rest. Leathery wings stretched from the monster's broad back, beating evilly in a twisted distortion of true flight. It strode on hoofed feet, a leering grin plastered on an inhumane face. A creature of myths and legends, told to children in bed to ensure their good behavior. An ered'ruin. Doomguard. The fiercest, cruelest servants of the Burning Legion.

And in the palms of its hands were glowing orbs of vitiating energies.

* * *

My visor display flashes numerous warning runes as the space around me erupts into fiery explosions. The daemons that are still surrounding me scream incoherently as fist sized meteors descend in trailing plumes of fire. Those not shredded instantly by ricocheting pieces of brimstone are consumed by the raging inferno that immediately follows. Protected by the blessed ceramite of my power armor, I am safe from their fate. But that does not mean I am totally impervious.

A falling fireball crashes onto my pauldron, the force of the impact knocking me down on one knee. Once again my HUD flares various alarm runes, bright in my eyes. I roar in fury as another smoldering stone smashes into my chest. Daemon scum! Their warp aided magiks will not fell a son of Corax!

I rise to my full height, unflinching as the blazing conflagration licks hungrily at my plate. My vox caster hisses with distorted static as my voice booms from its speakers.

"I HAVE WEATHERED FIERCER STORMS THAN THIS!"

The servos in my power armor whine protestingly as I spring from my position, chainsword sputtering with rage. I see the daemon responsible for this infernal sorcery, its features twisted in surprise as I emerge from its devious trap unscathed. My boltgun shudders as a four round burst emits from its muzzle.

The first diamantine tipped shell penetrates the warp thing's stomach, detonating in an eruption of torn entails. The second round slams into the lower thorax, puncturing the ribcage and turning it into a mess of splintered bone. The third drills a concentric hole in the daemon's throat before exploding into a gory crater of spilled blood. The last shell impacts on the Legion's ugly face and reduces its head to a visceral mist.

* * *

Keina cursed as her hands sought desperately to staunch the blood flowing freely from her leg. How ironic that she, the one furthest away from the doomguard's spell, was the only one wounded from it. The rogue had flipped backwards to avoid the fiery rain of meteors while the orc had thrown his shield up just in the nick of time. Avarian had endured the whole ordeal like the god he was, unfazed by the exploding stones or the cackling firestorm around him. She was not as lucky or as protected.

A stray piece of jagged rock had rebounded and struck her leg, causing a long, tearing laceration. The sentinel commander bit her lip to keep from crying out. Though she was in no immediate danger of bleeding to death, the pain was too great for her to walk.

"You are injured," the grating tone belonged to no one else but the giant.

Keina bit back a retort. Avarian had an annoying propensity to state the obvious.

"I am fine. Just a minor slash," the night elf expected the man to simply turn away at her words. She was immensely astonished when instead; he bent down and reached for her damaged limb.

"Moderate lacerations. Torn muscle," the kaldorei hissed in agony as those massive gauntleted fingers pressed against her naked thigh, "you are in no shape to walk anytime soon, xeno."

"Thank you for that insightful deduction," Keina growled, the pain influencing her words, "what are you going to tell me next? That I possess long ears?"

The god's blood red visors glinted at her dangerously. The sentinel captain regretted her angry comment immediately. She was about to apologize when Avarian swiveled his head towards the blood elf and the orc observing from behind.

"I need a sheet of cloth. A bandage."

The orc grunted and spread his hands wide in a helpless gesture. The sin'dorei shrugged, innocent befuddlement stretched on her features.

The giant speared her with a piercing glare.

"Xeno Vareesa. I know for a fact that you possess more than a few coins and gaudy trinkets in your bags," the man's imperious tone rang out again.

The rogue tensed, and then sighed, shaking her head ruefully as she dug into her belt bags. She produced a sheet of runecloth and handed it to the giant with a dejected air. Keina could see why. Runecloth was rare and valuable material, spun by the best weavers on Azeroth. Such was its scarcity, that normal vendors refused to sell any they possessed unless for stupidly high prices.

Avarian didn't seem to care.

The night elf winced as those colossal hands reached for her wound once again. To her surprise, the god's movements were quite dexterous. Thick, metal plated fingers flew with a speed that belied their appearance. They skirted around her nasty cut, covering the injury with the runecloth and swiftly wrapping it tightly to prevent continued blood flow. He has done this before, she realized.

Within seconds, the gash in her thigh is gone, replaced with taut layers of gauze. The kaldorei looked up as the giant spoke.

"Speed is vital. The warp scum in this area are up to something, I know it. You cannot walk xeno Keina. And even if you did, you would slow us down. This problem needs to be rectified," Avarian sheathed his toothed sword by his side and rammed a flat, cylinder like container into his gun.

A sense of panic sparked through the night elf's body. Would she be left behind? Her gaze shifted from the black clad behemoth towering over her to the grinning countenance of the sin'dorei. Of course. This was probably the blood elf's plan all along. The sentinel commander started to protest, when unexpectedly the god swept her up with one bulky arm. She felt a second of weightlessness before her body was deposited on one the giant's curved pauldrons, belly touching cool metal. The thick limb clamped down, holding her into place.

"Into the maelstrom of battle I go, for I am the Emperor's Wrath made manifest," Avarian intoned.

From her position on Avarian's shoulder, Keina spared a look at the sin'dorei. Vareesa's face had transformed from a gloating smirk to one of apoplectic fury. The night elf chuckled to herself. Of all the wounds that she's received in her long years of service, this was the only one that was totally worth it.


	18. A Dreadlord's Fall

_Soulless reader: Thanks! I'm not too great with descriptions, so you're going to have to forgive me on that! Avarian will receive help from the Scarlet Crusade once a very important epiphany is made. I have not reached a conclusion on whether Varian will die or not, so we'll have to see! Well, the injury Keina received was a laceration that tore into her muscle, which effectively prevents her from walking. And Avarian certainly isn't caring for Keina, well at least not right now. He just wants to hurry up and find the root of this daemonic infestation, because the longer you wait, the more time can be used to summon stronger warp creatures._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: In order for the factions to unite, there has to be one cataclysmic event caused by Chaos that will force all the race's leaders to go: "Oh shit, we're screwed if we don't do something about this!" This event I have already decided will happen in Stormwind simply because it makes sense. The Chaos sorcerer has to have a decent population base to draw his cultists from, and Stormwind unsurprisingly has the largest population. Varian's death is, as of now, undecided in this fiction._

_Mephisteron: Ahhh, but can't the worship of the Light and worship of the Emperor be… merged? I just gave you a very, very big hint to the plot btw! XD The chapters bearing Corax's geneseed certainly are known for their silent nature, however, that does not prevent them necessarily for shouting out battle cries, especially against daemons. You'll notice that Avarian doesn't talk much during the battle of Astranaar or the incursion into Blackfathom Deeps. He replies to questions asked curtly and without emotion, pretty much what you would expect from an astartes. The only reason Avarian is roaring out prayers is because he's facing what he thinks are daemons, the enemies space marines HATE the most._

_Weapon-VII: Thanks! In respect to magic, Avarian is certainly affected by it. The question is of course, to what extent? I like to make an analogy in reference to this. One lasgun won't hurt a space marine at all. Ten lasguns will probably make him slightly uncomfortable. One hundred lasguns will fry him. This is of course using tabletop standards. Fluffwise, lasguns, especially equipped with hotshot magazines, can punch through astartes power armor. In essence, for Avarian to be mortally hurt by magic, there will need to be quite a few mages/warlocks around casting spells. You are correct in saying space marines need doses of hormones and chemicals to maintain their bodies. However, an astartes' power armor actually provides the necessary doses, and since the micro fusion reactor in the space marine's back pack will never run out of power, our hero will not be devoid of his injections! The last 40k character has been decided on, though I will not unveil him to you guys yet!_

_Emperor chronicler: No promises on the tauren! XD_

_WraithRune: Thank you!_

_Ranger24: All in due time, all in due time…_

_Harbinger Delta: By my estimates, you'll probably meet the last 40k character around the middle of chapters 30 to 40. Most likely closer to 40._

_Thekilleregglord: There are many forms of magic present on Azeroth, and their effects will all be different on Avarian. Warlock magic, for example, which is based on inflicting pain on the enemy, will have very little effect on an astartes, because space marines are engineered to "feel no pain". Well, one needs to be an astropath to be able to communicate with other worlds, and I'm pretty sure Jaina is no psyker. Actually, the Death Spectres do not know their primarch. However, for the purposes of this story, they will swear by Corax._

_Thule: Your question isn't trifling at all. Why do Burning Legion demons not vanish back into the empyrean, if they are minions of a deity of Chaos? The answer will be in later chapters!_

_Xynth: I did the Wrathgate questline on my then specc'd fury warrior. Ahhh… Titan's Grip, how I miss thee… The orc warrior will be an interesting addition to say the least, since the orc race's form of honor is very similar to that of an astartes. How this revelation will affect Avarian, you'll just have to find out! I will be making an omake for this fic, though I think it will be after I get through a good portion of the chapters (which won't be for a while). The reason I chose Varian and not Garrosh is because if Garrosh was to fall, it would simply be another stereotypical "Bloodz 4 the Bloodz God!!!" type of thing. The evildoer in this case is a sorcerer of Chaos Undivided, who's reliance on power comes from all four gods._

_Dakaath: Thanks! I actually started playing right before Wrath came out. Imagine my grief when I got to level 70 and then realized a month later, I would have to start leveling again! I'm very grateful you like my writing style. Brothers of the Snake was the novel that influenced me to write this way. Salamander is actually also pretty good. I would recommend it, but that's just me :P_

_Huitt1989: Thanks!_

_Timewatch: She can't do anything XD_

Chapter 18

Metal storm frag rounds. Recent additions to an astartes' war arsenal. They differ from the standard point seventy-five caliber shells in application. Regular boltgun munitions are designed to be highly lethal to single targets; the explosive tipped charge detonating inside the foe for immense damage. Not so with storm frags. The diamantine tip and deuterium core that allows for excellent penetrating power in a standard shell are removed, replaced by an increased charge and fragmentation casings. A proximity detonator is added in lieu of the mass-reactive cap, allowing for discharge before impact. The storm frag was devised to shred the foe in a barrage of jagged pieces of metal. It has been proven effective against a range of enemies from lightly armored packs of lesser tyranids to naked hordes of maddened cultists.

It proves its worth once again in my hand.

My bolter jerks wildly as it sprays an advancing crowd of daemons with its destructive payload. There is no need to aim. Not anymore. As long as the frag shells burst near their intended targets.

Warp scum scream in agony as red hot shrapnel cut through their ranks. Some are slain immediately, serrated metal embedded in vital body areas. Most are not, though the after effects of each detonation have ravaged their twisted forms. Lacerations and gashes bleed copiously, a result from the wild flurry of flechettes.

The downside to the metal storm frag is the drop in confirmed kills. This suits me just fine. I only need to incapacitate these Legion.

My servos enhanced frame surges forward, long strides easily taking me into the midst of the foe. The night elf xeno dangling from my shoulder cries out in pain, no doubt due to my sudden movements affecting her injured leg. I growl spitefully. I care not for her discomfort. I have already done enough for this wretched alien. My left arm is rendered useless, forced to hold the wounded kaldorei in place. It would have been easier to have just left the elf to whatever ignominious end that awaited her.

I smash my bolter into the face of a daemon, caving its skull in like a rotten fruit. Even without the use of one limb, I am still deadly in combat.

A wrathguard stumbles forward, torso bleeding from multiple cuts. The shrapnel storm has not been kind to it. The handguard of my boltgun descends diagonally towards its neck. A snap of bone follows. The Legion crumples, its spine shattered from the blow. One of its lesser kin swings a two-bladed axe at me clumsily with one hand, the other having been perforated into a gory ruin by jagged metal. Its attempt to avenge its brethren is stalled abruptly by my return swing. The warp filth staggers back, weapon arm dangling obliquely. I bludgeon it to the ground and crush its windpipe with a well executed stomp.

Another daemon rushes towards me, bellowing an incoherent war cry. It is the only one left relatively unscathed by the frag rounds. Its halberd is aimed for the exposed elf clasped to my pauldron. I twist my body swiftly. The descending polearm that would have cleaved the kaldorei in two instead strikes against my chest, raising a shower of sparks from the blessed ceramite. I bash the thing's head in with the handle of my bolter, punishment for its audacity to inflict damage against my sacred vestments.

I wonder briefly why I have saved this xeno's miserable skin. Why I continue to protect her. She is an aberration from humanity. She is to be hated and scorned, vilified and reviled by all those who are loyal to the Emperor. Indeed, I have tolerated her presence only for the sake of my sacred mission.

Yet… yet, I cannot bring myself to witness her fall, at least not at the hands of these daemonic filth. The elf has proven herself courageous, standing steadfast first against the Burning Legion at Astranaar and then against the horrors in the bowels of Blackfathom Deeps. Such bravery is to be commended, even if it belongs to a treacherous alien. No, if she is to die, it will be at my hands. When the time comes, I will grant her a warrior's death, not the dishonorable end these warp things intend.

The last daemon falls with its mandible torn off, victim to an especially brutal blow from my bolter arm.

Inadequate. We are not making fast enough progress. I have seen this tactic employed against us a hundred times before by the craven worshippers of Chaos. They are attempting to drown us in a tide of bodies, trying to bide enough time for the summoning of more powerful creatures from the Warp. I cannot allow this. I strive to move faster and kill quicker.

Another gaggle of Legion rush forth, aiming to retard my progress. My boltgun belches with smoke and fire as a roaring challenge issues from my lips.

"Daemon filth! Come show me what passes for fury amongst your misbegotten kind!"

* * *

This could technically be considered romantic. Her limp form was clamped into place by the giant's left arm protectively, hanging lifelessly as his massive frame constantly shifted to avoid the rain of blows. Most of these strikes were aimed for her, and would have surely hit if it was not for Avarian's skill in combat. The god had sacrificed much so that he could defend her, and Keina was infinitely grateful to him.

She was not grateful, however, for the sudden, jerky movements of the giant that sent fresh slivers of agony into her wounded leg. Nor was she grateful for the occasional spurts of blood and splintered bone chips that would assail her face and neck, courtesy of the god's aptitude for war. She was even less grateful for the bellowed mixture of war cries and insults that rang from his helm, which threatened to deafen her sensitive ears.

Yes, this could technically be considered romantic, but only to a female orc.

Keina groaned as Avarian swung the shoulder laden with her injured form away just in time to avoid the descent of a nasty looking scimitar. The wrathguard who had come so close to bisecting the kaldorei gave a growl of frustration, denied its prey. The growl turned into an abrupt whimper as the giant smashed his metal gun into its face.

Through her pain induced haze, the sentinel commander had time to think. Not that she could do anything else. Her hands still gripped her bow, though the god had positioned her in such a way as to prevent its utilization. No, in her condition, the only thing she could do was let her mind wander… and hiss in misery as the occasional movement from Avarian sent another fresh pang of agony through her leg.

Why had he saved her? It was a question that Keina could not answer. The man wore an air of thinly suppressed revulsion around her and her kind. It was apparent at Astranaar, where the god emerged from the flames triumphant, his stature instantly uneasy as the crowd of kaldorei swept towards him thankfully. It was evident at Darnassus, where the giant entered the Temple of the Moon, his figure radiating contempt towards all those around him. It was obvious at his return from Blackfathon Deeps, where Avarian was greeted to a celebration in honor of him, his revealed face unsuccessful in hiding the repugnance at his well-wishers.

She could not understand. He had saved lives, many lives. The man should be proud of that fact, and glad to accept the accolades presented to him by the night elves. Instead, he seemed to be disgusted by his own actions, as though if saving lives were a detrimental side effect to his mission. Sure, the giant had explained his history at Theramore in some detail, regarding the hatred he had for the "xeno". But the kaldorei were not "xenos", at least by what he described them as. The children of the stars have never harmed humanity, and never will. Yet, his attitude towards her, towards Lady Tyrande and Tanavar, towards her people, spoke of fierce and undying loathing.

So then why was he keeping her safe, striving to protect her? Why was she not left behind to be preyed upon by the minions of the Burning Legion?

Could it be, he felt something for her?

The sentinel commander fought down the urge to laugh crazily. Here she was, carried helplessly on his shoulders, in the midst of a raging melee, with the chance of dying any minute, and she was thinking about his attraction towards her? How far the mind delves in insanity as it is clouded with pain.

Still, it could be a possibility, though a minute one at that.

The night elf wondered if the god pursued her with enamorous intent, would she accept?

A felguard swinging a massive halberd lunges forward, intent on the sole spot of weakness on the giant's seemingly impervious armor. Her. The curved edge descended, displacing whistling air in its rapid motion. Avarian shifted his body again, shielding Keina from the demon's attack. A clang of metal on metal results. The man grunts before bringing his oversized gun down on the Legion's head with sickening crunch.

Yes. She would accept.

* * *

Karduk Bloodfist hated demons. He hated them with a passion that belied his considerable years. He hated them for their conniving, scheming ways. Hated them for their manipulation of his people.

The Kor'kron warrior slammed his shield into the midriff of a felguard, bellowing. The mo'arg doubled over from the brutal attack, its muscular body bent and heaving. Karduk brought his axe down in a viscous chop, the keen blade slicing deep into the Legion's shoulder. Ignoring the howl of pain that followed, the orc freed his weapon from its victim in a great spurt of ichor. The felguard struggled to right itself; beady red eyes glaring balefully back at the orc. Karduk's next strike buried into the demon's forehead, the axe edge hewing through the skull and slicing into brain tissue.

The orc raised his visor and spat a globule of phlegm at the sagging corpse.

He was Bleeding Hollow to the bone, having served under Kilrogg Deadeye, and then his son Jorin. He had seen what the Burning Legion had did to his race first hand, having been infused with the fel blood of Mannoroth during the First and Second War. Countless innocents he had slaughtered in the name of his dark masters, all in the throes of demonic bloodlust. The orcs would have been damned forever, and Karduk in extension, if not for Thrall. When the bloodlust faded from his veins, the orc had been tormented with visions of his past atrocities. Karduk had vowed then and there to destroy the Legion for what they had done to his once noble people.

He would never again fall prey to the temptation of power and vainglory, the very tenets that brought the veil of corruption over their heads.

Why couldn't his son see that?

Karduk avoided the clumsy swing of a polearm, the felguard holding it having been weakened from the metal man's volley of booming gunfire. The Kor'kron sank his axe into the demon's chest, unmindful of the hot blood that spilled onto his armor. The mo'arg gave a gurgling cry and latched onto the orc's weapon with the strength of desperation. Karduk snarled. Annoying. His circular spiked shield came into play once again, smashing into the Legion and forcing it to release its hold. His axe swept horizontally, and sent the demon's head lolling on the floor.

His son, Thokim… Karduk hadn't really strangled him, though the thought had more than once materialized in his mind. The young orc had joined the Warsong Clan, a decision his father had adamantly opposed. To the Kor'kron warrior, the actions of the Warsong Clan and its chieftan, Garrosh Hellscream, were a haunting reminiscence of the demonic Horde. So when Thokim finally accepted a position in Ashenvale, Karduk had cut all ties to him, swearing never again to speak to what he viewed as his failure.

But in truth, the grizzled orc had never stopped loving his son. When the reports of Thokim missing were delivered to Orgrimmar, the seemingly always impassive Karduk had been overwhelmed with grief. With the dangers of Azeroth ever looming, a missing orc was a dead orc. For days the father had brooded, blaming himself for distancing his son.

It was with immense relief and surprise to Karduk then, when Thokim and three others arrived at the Horde capitol, weary and ragged, but safe. Due to the extent of Thokim's fatigue, he was allowed a few weeks of rest. Inevitably Karduk had come to visit, and the tension between them thawed to amicable levels. The old orc had tried to persuade his son once again of the follies that was his path with the Warsong Clan, sadly though, to no effect. Thokim was unyielding in his decision to remain with Garrosh's host. In the end, the Kor'kron had left his son to his rest, though not before hearing of Thokim's savior.

A pained shout caused the aged warrior to turn his attention away from the decapitated felguard.

The metal being had smashed his oversized gun on the shoulder of a corrupted eredar. Much to Karduk's admiration, the wrathguard's hurt side actually sagged from the force of the blow. The demon staggered back, weapons forgotten. The return swing smacked into the Legion's horned helm. A crack of broken bone rent the air as the eredar's head met at a ninety degree angle with its neck.

The orc grinned savagely.

His son had described his rescuer as clad in iron, taller than a tauren, with the ability to manipulate fire. The cultists at Blackfathom Deeps were no match to him, and the traitor, Kelris, had perished in a fiery conflagration. Even more unbelievable, was the fact this metal man had single handedly killed a demon beast summoned by the foul followers of the Twilight Hammer. Karduk did not entirely believe Thokim's story, thinking it to be a side effect of his son's weariness.

That was then, and this is now.

The Kor'kron had witnessed Avarian's potency with his shrieking toothed sword firsthand, albeit briefly. The orc had been the last to join the combat, his plated bulk having worn him down considerably. However, even at a distance, the slaughter the iron giant inflicted upon the Legion was much apparent. Every strike from the metal man had been aimed to mete out instant death or fatal enough wounds that death was mere seconds away. Demons fell before his biting blade like wheat before a scythe, their anguished cries music to Karduk's ears.

The old orc had been impressed. He recognized a potent warrior when he saw one. This Avarian was the greatest one he had laid eyes on so far, barring Thrall and Saurfang of course.

That opinion was formulated before the metal warrior manhandled the kaldorei female on his shoulder and continued the killing spree with one bludgeoning arm. So maybe he was on par with Thrall. Probably not Varok though. One never knew just how powerful Saurfang's cleaves really were.

Karduk had been quite pleased at Avarian's act of helping the night elf. Not that he cared for her wellbeing. She was Alliance, and he was Horde. That was enough reason to be at each other's throats instantly. No, he was satisfied in the act itself. To help one's allies was an act of honor, and to a member of the New Horde, such an action was worthy of great respect.

Another gaggle of Legion surged forward, their fervent bellows echoing among the gloomy deeps of the Undercity. Avarian matched them in volume with thunderous roars from his colossal gun, striding impossibly quick into their midst to do battle.

Karduk chuckled. What he would give to be young again.

* * *

The salvo of projectiles perforates the advancing demon line, reaping a bloody tally of both slain and wounded. The giant smashed into the reeling Legion formation, and scattered the monsters in all direction. All caught in his reach died from swift hammering blows, their falling bodies betraying massive signs of physical trauma.

Vareesa could care less. Her attentions were focused solely on the night elf draped over the god's pauldron. She seethed. She fumed. She was livid.

She was better than that no good, uncivilized, amazon. She had to be. Her blood was royalty, bequeathed by her father, whose standing among the magisters of Silvermoon was undisputed. Her features were angelic, gifted by her mother, whose beauty caused nigh unobtainable mage to become a husband. Her form was supple, crafted by herself through years of hardship as a rogue. She was perfection made in flesh, divinity granted a mortal shell! She was a goddess!

How could the giant not realize this? They were meant for each other!

The blood elf leapt under a wild swing from a felguard, her thoughts filled with angst. The tainted mo'arg gave a snarl of frustration at missing its target. The frustrated growl abruptly changed into a shrill squeal as the sin'dorei brutally rammed her daggers into the demon's groin. Stiletto tips punctured through armor to dig deep into the soft, vulnerable flesh that lay beneath. The felguard collapsed, twitching in agony.

What had transpired between Avarian and that kaldorei wench? Vareesa had made sure to be in the presence of the giant at all times, if possible. Surely, if something had happened, she would know of it? The rogue hissed. She had underestimated this Keina's resourcefulness. The night elf had played the part of the innocent all this time, while luring her into a sense of false security, believing she was the better. Wretched thing! The kaldorei had most likely seduced the man on the rare occasion when her back was turned!

Her chance for power would slip away if she did not act soon. She had to grasp it now, or never! So what if the night elf had shown him the delights of the flesh? She could do better! When the time came, she would force herself upon the giant, and show him the true touch of a woman!

The rapid descent of a long sword threatened to hew her in half. The blood elf threw herself backwards, just in time to avoid such a gristly end. Her feet slipped on a puddle of freshly spilt blood, and with a surprised cry she landed heavily on her bottom. The wrathguard bellowed in victory, flourishing the weapon that would be her doom.

It advanced.

A thunderous boom. The eredar managed a puzzled expression before a multitude of metal shards sliced its body into an unrecognizable mess. Vareesa flinched as the mutilated corpse toppled, revealing the god, his massive gun still smoking.

"Xeno Vareesa. Do not make me regret wasting ammunition for your benefit," Avarian's stentorian voice rang in her ears.

The blood elf's fears and uncertainties immediately vanished.

She purred.

"Of course not my lord…"

* * *

A trio of the same winged daemons that summoned the rain of flaming meteorites. Stronger than the rest, infused with maligned intellect, they are the commanders of these warp scum. Their flapping forms turn at our approach, purplish energies cackling in clawed hands.

I scowl beneath my faceplate. I will not allow these daemons free reign in their heretical sorceries.

Crosshairs materialize in my visor display. I ignore them for now. Storm frag rounds do not need to be pin point accurate, only well placed. The ammo count in my HUD dwindles from six to nothing in a heartbeat. Six shells. They detonate in proximity to the hovering daemons, showering them with shrapnel. Mutated forms shudder and jerk as they are caught unprepared in the storm of metal.

All three plummet to the ground, their membranous wings ripped to tattered pieces.

I charge forward.

One manages to stand back up on weak legs, half its face a bloody wreck of lacerated flesh. I smash it back down. The daemon bellows in defiance, its one remaining eye gleaming with malicious intent. My boot reduces its face further into an unrecognizable pulp. The other two are struggling up, rivulets of blood cascading down their bodies. I end their existence with bone shattering blows from my bolter arm.

I grimace. My weapon was covered in the viscous gore of slain daemons, its plating slick with tainted blood. The resident machine spirit will have to be placated through prayer and sacred oils after this conflict.

My visor spots a gateway entrance amid the dusty stones of this underground city. My senses are overwhelmed by the sheer corruption emanating from within the arched foyer. The source of these daemon spawn is now evident.

I swivel my head to view the night elf xeno still draped over my pauldron. There will be undoubtedly stronger foes I must face. I cannot allow her weakness to interfere with my battles any longer.

"Can you stand?" I growl through my suit's vox-caster.

I am slightly disturbed by the dreamy look she gives me.

"Hmmm?" Her eyes are unfocused. Probably from blood loss, I deduce.

"Can you stand?" I repeat, fast growing impatient.

"I believe so---"

"Good," I cut her off before lowering my shoulder. The kaldorei slides off and lands hesitantly on one foot. She tests her injured limb with a wince.

I do not stay to see more. I eject the spent drum magazine from my boltgun, replacing it with my last clip housing standard rounds. My boots propel me towards the entrance. I can guarantee at least thirty two more daemon deaths.

* * *

"Ruined… RUINED!!!"

Varimathras howled his ire as the connection to his liege disappeared in a barrage of gunfire. The last of his gates, the doorways to the Twisting Nether were destroyed spectacularly in a cacophony of explosions.

"A thousand, thousand pardons my lord! I will deal with these intruders!" the dreadlord hissed through clenched teeth.

The nathrezim flung itself, wings flapping, at the black clad being that had cost it so dear. Taloned nails that could tear a man into pieces, swept forward, propelled by demonic muscle and unholy rage. A screeching spiked sword met the demon's strike, whirring with malevolence.

Varimathras cried out in surprise as his claws clanged off the giant's armor, leaving nothing but mere scratch marks. The churning toothed blade of the strange being had no such limitation. The weapon tore a long strip of flesh from the dreadlord's exposed arm, eliciting an angry bellow from the nathrezim.

"Faith is my shield! Hate is my sword!" the shouted voice belonged to a man's, steely and resolute.

A zealot eh? This one would be easy to fool.

The roiling teeth swung into the dreadlord's sight again, promising death. The former advisor to Sylvanas lunged forward and caught the arm holding the deadly weapon in an iron grip. Varimathras cringed at the vigor behind the blow. It could not win in a contest of strength against this metal man, but it didn't need to. Brain before brawn was the axiom for all dreadlords.

Channeling the massive reserve of mana within itself, the winged demon summoned forth a cloud of shadow magic and lanced it into the giant, using the upheld arm as a catalyst. Shadow Word: Pain. Any caught within the destructive range of this spell were enveloped by dark energies summoned forth from the netherworld, forever caught in endless torment.

The nathrezim sneered triumphantly as the metal being's sword arm noticeably slackened. The spell was designed to kill through sheer nerve wracking agony. No one could possibly withstand such a powerful blast of dark magic and live.

"Pain has no hold over me daemon!"

The gloating grin vanished along with the dreadlord's nose, crushed into broken fragments as the helm of the giant connected with its face in a brutal headbutt.

Varimathras stumbled back, wailing. The limb that held the still churning sword from its descent reflexively recoiled.

A fatal mistake.

The hissing blade connected with the demon's shoulder, and pressed down. A geyser of blood spouted forth as the metal teeth chewed through flesh and bone alike in their mechanical hunger.

The dreadlord screamed impotently as it flung itself back from the giant's weapon. Its left arm dangled uselessly at its side, a thin sliver of muscle holding the near amputated limb from falling. It had been so sure of victory, so confident of success. Now the fates have turned on it, laughing at its suffering and eagerly awaiting its death.

Varimathras launched itself into midair, wings beating rapidly as it sought to escape from its wretched predicament. The nathrezim barreled past the metal man, taking another deep gash in its side from the screeching sword. Three beings barred its path to freedom and survival. A blood elf, daggers twirling expertly in her hands. An orc, plated form bristling with hatred. A wounded night elf, drawn arrow on bowstring. The dreadlord surged forward, intent on battering aside these pitiful mortals in its need to escape.

It halted. And despaired.

Striding forth behind the three came Sylvanas and Thrall, apoplectic rage written on the features of the first and unmerciful fury on the second. A mass of Kor'kron Guard followed, axes stained red with demon blood.

"Years… wasted…" Varimathras whispered.

The giant's gun roared into life.


	19. A Hard Choice to Make

_Guest: The corruption is most likely to occur around chapter 40._

_Sarge51: Thanks!_

_Gideon020: Most likely it will be scenario number three on your list. You anticipate correctly! Avarian will face many challenges in his quest to unite all of Azeroth against the Burning Legion. And he'll do it the only way he knows how, through overwhelming firepower and brutal swings from his chainsword! The last 40k character will be steadfastly loyal to the main character, but Avarian will have doubts about his trustworthiness at first._

_Emperor chronicler: The Land Speeder will still be used, but mostly by Avarian, Keina, and Vareesa. In the end, I plan to introduce enough characters to Avarian's little band to fill up a Land Raider! XD Our hero will have many more opportunities to show off his killing prowess in future chapters!_

_Thule: Thank you! I hoped my inserted quote from DoW2 would be satisfactory. What I see in terms of healing magic, are the Sisters of Battle's acts of faith. Healing isn't all that unheard of in the 40k universe, since the Adeptus Soriortas have an entire order dedicated to it. _

_Will of the Emperor: Ahhh, but how will the Inquisition find out? The location of Azeroth has not been disclosed yet, but we can assume it's pretty far away from the view of the Inquisition as of now. Also, the Inquisition is pretty busy with the 13__th__ Black Crusade (which takes place during this fic). In the PoV of Avarian, he will undoubtedly see the Horde as a bunch of filthy xenos just waiting to be cleansed. However, he will view the Alliance in much the same light, since not only are there xenos in the Alliance, there are humans who consort with them, which will not rankle well with a space marine._

_Ranger24: Indeed!_

_Thekilleregglord: Psyker powers and the relationship with Azerothian magic will be disclosed in later chapters! "Abhor the Witch, Destroy the Witch" is a Black Templar vow, if I am correct. The Black Templars are especially puritanical in regards to psykers, and as a result, do not have any librarians in their ranks. This cannot be said for the Death Spectres, who will have a few psykers among them as per the Codex Astartes._

_Mephisteron: I was not really clear about the relationship between the Light and the Imperial Faith in my previous response. However, I do not want to fully this information since it will affect the plot to a large degree. On the positive note, this information will appear in Chapter 21! (I think)_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: I understand you feel strongly about the character of Varian, and I sympathize completely. Despite playing Horde, I actually liked the background of Varian and felt his current actions in regards to the Horde are perfectly reasonable. Suffice to say, if Varian does die in the plot, it will not be because I hate him and want him to perish, but because it furthers the storyline. I will say again, I am still undecided about the king of Stormwind's ultimate fate._

_Overdrive1: Heh heh, agreed! However, there will be some changes to that poster. The two most prevalent would be the number of women clinging to Avarian's leg, and the other 40k character that will be introduced, who would provide a nice backdrop!_

_Xynth: Thanks! You provide a good point in regards to the Horde turning to Chaos. We'll see where that goes, considering the Word Bearer Sorcerer is going for Stormwind first!_

_Peanuckle: That just adds to the humor does it not? :D_

_Weapon-VII: No, not all humans in Stormwind will turn to Chaos. However, a good portion of them will meet very undesirable ends to say the least. And yes, no Grey Knight has been ever recorded to fall to the temptations of Chaos. _

_Gogolu & des: Thank you!_

_Dakaath: Thanks! I was hoping my switching of viewpoints would prove to be interesting! _

_Hiutt1989: So very true! XD_

_Soulless reader: Avarian has quite a selection of different bolt rounds. Metal storm frags, Kraken penetrators, Hellfires, they should all be mentioned in Chapter 8. I will not be buying Chaos Rising. DoW II refused to run on my desktop, and when it did, it was horrendously laggy. I managed to get through half the campaign before I quit out of sheer frustration._

_Pinto: Thank you! I actually believe in the opposite. Imperial forces, even space marines, have been known to work with xenos in concert against a greater threat. An example of this would be the numerous Black Crusades led by Abaddon, where eldar warriors fought alongside numerous Imperial Guard regiments and space marine companies against the Chaos Legions._

Chapter 19

Sylvanas Windrunner watched in sinister approval as Varimathras's airborne frame burst apart under the metal giant's salvo of fire, the demon's last screech of agony long and forbidding. Red ichor, still warm from its circulatory path along the body, drizzled down like rain, splattering in thick drops on to the cobblestones of her throne room. A visceral mist accompanied the dreadlord's death, hung in the dank atmosphere for brief seconds before dissipating into nothing.

A fitting end for such a vile and perfidious creature.

The Dark Lady had imagined a considerable number of scenarios where she could obtain her vengeance over the demon that was her former servant. All were bloody and violent to the extreme. She was a vengeful being, and Avarian had sated her need for blood to be spilled.

In retrospect, she had known the dreadlord would betray her. The nathrezim were a scheming, deceitful species, famed and hated for their manipulative ways and treacherous guile. Their loyalty lay only to Sargeras, though out of fear or respect, no one had discerned. Varimathras was no different. The Dark Lady had counted on her erstwhile advisor to cast away any illusions of loyalty to the Forsaken once it thought the time was right. However, the demon had its uses and the Banshee Queen at the time reckoned allowing Varimathras to serve her was more advantageous than simple executing the fell creature.

She was prepared for the nathrezim's duplicity, but caught unawares at just how fast it would come. Sylvanas had also assumed her people, former undead slaves to the Lich King, would remain steadfastly loyal when the time of betrayal came. She never imagined in her wildest dreams that members of her own Royal Apothecary Society would fall in with Varimathras's schemes.

Her naivety had cost her. The death plague her alchemists had worked so hard to keep secret was now revealed to the world by that power loving fool, Putress. The former high apothecary had unleashed the prototype disease at Wrathgate as his part of the bargain with the dreadlord, devastating the area with noxious fumes and poisonous vapors.

But the plague, for all its lethal payload, was only half effective.

The Banshee Queen's alchemists had toiled for years to develop a chemical concoction that could rival the viral pestilence that Kel'Thuzad brought to Lordaeron years ago. The Scourge's death plague not only killed, it reanimated the dead. Sylvanas wanted her apothecaries to reach the same outcome with her form of the virus. To the Dark Lady, the plague was a means to alleviate her suffering as an undying specter of what she once was. It was not fair that the rest of the world went about their business while she and her kind had to endure unfathomable torment at the hands of the Lich King. Once the disease was researched to its full potential, she would set it free on all of Azeroth, and watch it envelop the living in a miasma of choking ruin. Those who died would rise again, their bodies decaying to shreds of flesh on bone, their minds dwindling to the borders of insanity. Then, and only then, would Sylvanas be satisfied. After all, why shouldn't the world suffer along with her?

But, this was all pointless now. With Varimathras's betrayal, and the unveiling of the half developed plague, all of Azeroth now knew it was the Forsaken who had invented this terrible weapon. With this knowledge, she and her kind would be hated even more. The Horde had only accepted the Forsaken into their ranks begrudgingly, mostly due to the efforts of warchief Thrall. In those years as a faction leader within the Horde, Sylvanas had made few allies. Only the recently induced blood elves were favorable to her cause, which did her no good since they held little sway over Orgrimmar.

There will be questions. Questions the Banshee Queen did not want to answer. Varimathras, traitorous, arrogant bastard that it was, at least was a capable enough counselor to formulate plans that could further her goals. Now with the nathrezim dead, she needed someone else that could bear the mantle of the dreadlord, someone whose skills could complement her own.

The Dark Lady settled her gaze on the giant.

Of course! Why hadn't she thought of this before? Here was an instrument of vengeance delivered right into her lair!

The queen of the Forsaken allowed herself a rare smile as her sharp eyes took in the sight of what undoubtedly would be her future ally. Black metal adorned the giant's massive frame, anointed with the blood of his foes and giving off a palpable aura of malevolent menace. His broad chest was decorated with a symbol she did not recognize, a white skull with two outstretched wings. Large pauldrons, black trimmed with white, sat unyieldingly on the man's shoulders. A bone colored helm covered his head, its visage a daunting mask of steel. In one enormous hand, Avarian held a growling spiked blade, dripping with gore. In the other, he grasped a bulky gun, barrel still smoking from discharge.

This man was the embodiment of strength, and in the trials to come, she would need this strength.

Red slits bulging from a white helm glared back at her, and with a start, Sylvanas realized she was the sole focus of the giant's attention. The giant raised his toothed sword towards her, its churning blades spitting out clogged flesh.

"What are you?" the question came out as a booming roar, causing all to flinch at its volume.

She was keenly aware of the tension hanging in the air.

"Arthas made me into the monster that I am now. Undead," her words form a haunting whisper, a dreadful mockery of what once was a beautiful voice.

"You are not," the Banshee Queen narrowed her eyes at this statement, "undead are slaves to foul Nurgle. Dim and brainless, they spread the Curse of Unbelief through their contagion filled bodies. My Terrorsight detected none of these traits on yours. You possess independent thought and no diseased parts. Hence, you cannot be what you claim. I ask again. What are you?"

A collected murmur of disbelief issued from the Kor'kron orcs behind Thrall. To them, such things were simple to categorize. If it wasn't alive, it was dead. If it wasn't dead, it was alive. If it wasn't dead or alive, then it was undead.

Avarian's helm tilted slightly sideways, as though if in deep thought. Sylvanas didn't know how to respond. Throughout her tortured existence as a member of the dead risen, she was always thought of as an abomination that needed to be destroyed. This train of thinking was not only carried by the Alliance, but by some affiliates of the Horde as well. She had grown used to the hatred conveyed towards her and her kind. But now, here was someone who refused to believe she was undead? The consequences would be most interesting to say the least, and overwhelmingly tilted towards her favor.

She would be a fool to let such an opportunity to get away.

Unfortunately, such an opportunity slipped from her grasp when an odium-filled bellow echoed into her ears.

"THRALL! I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD! FOR BOLVAR!!!"

* * *

No discipline. No order. No restraint.

These contemplations drift into my brain as I view the ruler of humans on this miserable planet. Varian Wrynn.

A jagged scar crosses his face from cheek to cheek, a testament to some long, arduous battle. His body is entirely clad in plate, decorated to my faint curiosity with the marks pertaining to that of the eagle and the lion. Two curved swords are gripped expertly in his armored hands, a potent sign of a well versed warrior. A furred cloak drops from his well formed shoulders, manifesting an untamed yet regal bearing.

I snarl beneath my battle helm.

Obviously a traitor. No decent servant of the Imperium would ever consort with the xeno. I have seen his lackeys at Darnassus, treating the night elf aliens with respect and deference. Heresy! Humanity is pure, whilst the xeno is tainted! Humanity is virtuous, whist the xeno is debased! Humanity deserves mastery of the universe, whilst the xeno deserves nothing more than to be crushed under the iron heel of man! This is the decree of the Emperor, and as His faithful astartes, it is my duty to follow it to the letter.

The gauntlet holding my boltgun twitches towards the traitor's advancing frame. My finger lightly taps the trigger, but not enough to fully depress it.

_"You must not allow the Alliance or the Horde to split, or Chaos will engulf us all."_

The elder psyker's words float into my thoughts. I stay my hand. Damn that witch and her scheming ways! Xenos and aliens I can handle, I can control myself, knowing that my duty sometimes extends to circumstances I will not like. But heretics and traitors? No! I cannot allow such filth in my presence! I cannot allow their perfidious existence to corrupt the Imperium! They must be cleansed!

_"You must unite them."_

Unite a gaggle of xenos and traitors? What good will that do? They would betray me the second I turn my back on them! I can not rely on these riffraff! These scum! They have never even heard of the Emperor or the Imperium! They know not of the true horrors humanity faces on a daily basis! How can I count on them to fight to the last and not run at the first sign of danger?

_"Only then, do you stand a chance against the darkness that looms ahead."_

Conceited, arrogant witch! An eldar would never understand the true strength of the Emperor's Finest! I am His righteous sword that slays the foes of humanity! I am His impenetrable shield that forever guards mankind! I am His mighty fist that smites the heretic! I am His purging flames that burn the mutant! I am His wrathful anger that destroys the xeno! I am Astartes! I am a Space Marine! I am an Angel of Death!

Did not Rogal Dorn, esteemed primarch of the Imperial Fists say, "give me a hundred space marines, or failing that, give me a thousand other men"? Did not our actions for the last ten millennia prove that we are the greatest warriors the Imperium has to offer? Did not our battles against horrors that would drive mortal men mad with terror confirm our superiority?

I do not need their help! I am more than capable of destroying the Chaos infestation on this faithless planet alone!

My twin hearts beats furiously in response to my thoughts. I struggle to contain my temper. Pride is one's duty is to be expected of my station, but I cannot allow myself to be surrounded by a veil of vainglory. Humility to the Emperor is the cure to such a weakness. Hatred for the enemy is the surest weapon I have in my arsenal, but I cannot allow it to cloud my judgments. Self-discipline in my actions is the solution to such a problem.

My lips move rapidly as I intone the Litany of Tranquility under my breath.

The logical part of my mind takes this time to reason with me.

I remind myself that I am not in Imperial territory. These indigenous peoples have not been exposed to the glory that is the Imperium, and the magnificence that is its ruler. They can be… forgiven… for their inadequate knowledge. Humanity's alliance with the xenos can also be absolved. I understand a greater foe must be faced, and the association with lesser beings sometimes is necessary to defeat said opponent. However, that does not mean I will swallow this indignity and forget about it. No, when the Burning Legion lie broken at my feet, I will enact a great cleansing on this world! Pyres will burn for a hundred nights as the xeno and the heretic are thrown into the fiery conflagrations! All that will be found wanting, will die!

I beat back the mounting fury that threatens once again to control me.

Varian's spiteful voice interrupts my zeal filled reverie.

"I was away for too long. My absence cost us the lives of some of our greatest heroes. Trash like you and this evil witch are allowed to roam free --- unchecked."

I grunt appreciatively. Perhaps I have misjudged this king of Stormwind. He obviously knows of the foul nature of the ork. Maybe this Varian will redeem the humans on this planet with his next deeds?

"The time has come to make things right. To disband your treacherous kingdom of murderers and thieves. Putress was the first strike. Many more will come."

My gauntlet tightens on the grip of my chainsword. If blood is to be spilled, I would irrevocably side with the Alliance. Heretics and traitors these humans may be, but they can be taught of the Emperor's greatness, and turned from their blasphemous ways.

However, to depend solely on one side is to invite disaster. Who knows what treachery they will have in store once their bitter foes in the form of the Horde are defeated. In truth, judging from the amount of conflict amongst the ambassadors at the night elf aliens's overgrown tree fort, without an immediate threat to unite them, the Alliance would most likely split into schisms. I cannot allow that. And as much as I would like to deny it, every able bodied being, whether human or xeno, will be needed to stave off the foul armies of Chaos and the Burning Legion. To completely dismantle the Horde would mean a monumental waste of manpower, and a dramatic decrease in the number of available personnel.

"I've waited a long time for this, Thrall. For every time I was thrown into one of your damned arenas… for every time I killed a greenskin aberration like you… I could only think of one thing."

I feel a hint of admiration for this king. To survive an ork slave camp was no small feat. Swinetusks were known for capturing Imperial citizens and forcing them into work camps to provide the materials needed for the shoddy construction of what the greenskins called war machines. Most do not survive the back-breaking labor. I would know. The Death Spectres have fought orks in the magnitude from an occasional warband to a full fledged Waaagh.

"What our world could be without you and your twisted Horde… It ends now, Warchief."

I curse under my breath. My desire to aid humanity is paramount, but to do so would make my sacred mission almost impossible. But, to assist the Horde would mean assisting xenos and aliens, an act that would lead me irreversibly towards damnation.

"ATTACK! FOR STORMWIND! FOR BOLVAR! FOR THE ALLIANCE!"

My chainsword emits a throaty hum as my finger clamps down on the activation trigger.

* * *

Jaina Proudmoore gave a shout of dismay as her running gait brought her to the entrance of the Undercity's Royal Quarters. Just in time to see King Varian and his men throw themselves at Thrall, swords raised high to strike.

"VARIAN, NO! STOP!"

The ruler of Theramore focused on a barren patch of cobblestone in the vicinity of the rapidly escalating conflict. She felt the familiar tendrils of magic enveloping her body before her form disappeared, only to materialize a split second later next to the dueling faction leaders. The young mage flung an outstretched hand towards the ongoing melee, runic words tumbling from her lips. A chill of summoned ice glazed over her fingertips as the ground beneath the combatants suddenly erupted into crystalline shards of frozen water. Any caught in her enchantment's range were instantly incapacitated; their bodies powerless to resist such a potent freeze spell.

A desperate measure that was sure to further lower herself in the eyes of the Alliance, but at least it stopped the fighting.

The king of Stormwind shot her a furious glare.

"Damn it Jaina! I knew this would happen!" Varian's voice was laced with barely contained rage.

Ice had frozen the king's uplifted arm in place, his held sword barely a foot away from Thrall's face. The warchief remained calm in the face of such danger, his warhammer solidified to a gloved hand by a block of hoarfrost.

The reagent of Theramore breathed an audible sigh of relief. It did not last.

"I knew you wouldn't have the heart to kill these trash! Fortunately, I came prepared for just such an occasion!" Varian spat.

An Alliance footman who had remained outside of her freeze spell's area of effect tore off his helm, revealing long thin ears and lustrous blue eyes. A high elf. But that was not all. The disguised footman pointed a mailed finger towards the king of Stormwind's immobile frame, a rapid stream of phrases flowing smoothly from his mouth. Jaina immediately recognized it as a counter enchantment. The quel'dorei was a mage as well!

The shards of frost holding the king in place promptly shattered into a thousand pieces.

Her cry of panic is matched by Varian's roar of triumph.

"NOTHING CAN STAND BETWEEN ME AND MY VENGEANCE!!!"

The flashing blade descends in a lethal arc towards the warchief, glinting with promised malice. Too quick for her to do anything to prevent its path. Jaina shut her eyes tightly. She could not watch. She could not watch the blow that would forever sever any possible ties between the Alliance and the Horde. She could not watch the strike that would doom them all to an eternity of war between the races. She could not watch the death of her friend.

A clang of metal on metal reverberates amidst the cavernous holds of the Undercity.

The young mage flinched slightly in confusion, her eyes still shut. There was no bellow of pain from Thrall, or shout of victory from Varian. Just silence. Eerie, uncomfortable silence.

She blinked open one eye. And gasped.

The giant, his black metal armor dripping with gore, stood behind the orc chieftan, his strange toothed sword easily parrying the death stroke meant for Thrall.

For that one moment, Jaina thought her heart quickened a pace.

The Lady of Theramore mumbled a fresh collection of words, and concentrated on the city of Stormwind. A teleportation spell. Within seconds, she and any members of the Alliance would be transported back to the human capitol, unharmed except for one bruised ego.

Before she disappeared, the mage gave the man who had saved her aspirations a grateful look.

He did not return it.

* * *

Holy Throne of Terra! What have I done?

My gauntlet still holds the thrumming chainblade, its position unchanged from the block against the king of Stormwind's attack.

Oh Immortal Emperor on top of thy Golden Throne, I have sinned against you! I have aided a xeno against a human, the greatest crime a servant of your worthiness can commit! I am no better than a traitor now! In your everlasting Light, forgive me for my sacrilegious ways!

My mind reels from my actions, confused, disoriented, befuddled. Have I done what is right? What is to be expected of me as an astartes? Such is my disbelief in my treacherous act, that I barely bat an eyelid at the sudden disappearance of the humans of the Alliance.

The orc should die for its crimes against humanity. But if I allow its death, the subsequent consequences would forfeit my mission!

Oh Great Father of Mankind! Forgive your humble servant for his ineptitude! Forgive this bumbling fool for his inadequacies! Please Lord!

The xeno chieftan turns, its ugly green face spreading into a gracious smile.

"Aka'Magosh Avarian. I thank you for saving my life."

My features turn into a feral scowl beneath my ceramite faceplate. Oh how I wish to strangle this orc and throw his broken body over a precipice. But due to this damned circumstance, I cannot. I have to abide its existence. That thought alone almost makes me spit into my helm's mouthpiece.

Instead, I stride past this Thrall, ignoring the puzzled expression on its face.

I desperately need to pray.


	20. The Forests of Tirisfal

**Author's Note: I encourage anyone who has been following this story and wants to know in depth about Avarian's character to read the little offshoot fic I am working on. I promise you won't be disappointed!**

_Lunatic Pandora 1: Thanks!_

_Emperor chronicler: Thank you! I doubt I will add a Pandaren character, since they're pretty rare in the Warcraft III game and nonexistent in World of Warcraft. Avarian's Land Speeder will serve him for a further amount of chapters before he will have to use it in a rather nonstandard way. As for a mount for our astartes, well, I'm pretty sure that there are some things in Azeroth that could hold the weight of a space marine! Them wanting to though, is a whole another matter! And yes, Avarian will learn about the history of Azeroth soon, most explicitly about the Lich King._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: The next chapter will have the answer to your question!_

_JagerPanzer: One of the main tenets I hold when writing a crossover, is that I try to stay within the realms of fluff. I am pleased that my characterization of Avarian has not disappointed! Sylvanas will not be burned, at least not by the astartes. Indeed, the story is still way too early for me to decide on what to do with her. Know however, that the Banshee Queen will have an impact on Avarian, though whether through good or bad, it is up to you to decide. :P If I did make our space marine immediately throw away centuries of indoctrination at the mere sight of some xeno tail, then I would have failed hard at staying true to fluff! The personal conflict of the marine will be a central part of the plot, so you can expect to see him question a lot of things in the future. Well, Stormwind isn't the only faction with humans! There are some humans in Azeroth that Avarian would feel right at home with, who also have a propensity to wear red in copious amounts._

_Soulless reader: I can be much, much slower ya' know! Terrorsight is described in Gav Thorpe's book, "Angels of Darkness". It is pretty much a form of x-ray vision implemented in the space marine's helm so he can see through walls and enemies. Eh, I just think like a space marine! Though it does depend on the chapter. If the main character was an Angry Marine, chapter 19 would have been just ten pages of "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU----"An interesting thing about Raven Guard is that their Betcher's Gland, the organ that allows an astartes to spit acid, doesn't work due to extensive mutation._

_Mattrocks: Thanks! I try to stay at around four thousand words per chapter._

_Gideon020: Heh, no promises on the Land Raider. _

_Behelit: The Word Bearer sorcerer is a worshiper of Chaos Undivided, so, you never know._

_Vashanti: I am honored at your praise!_

_Sarge51: The Emperor does respond to prayers in the 40k universe. It is evidenced in Acts of Faith by the Sisters of Battle as well as the existence of Living Saints. And Avarian won't go on a wild purging spree…. At least, not for now :P_

_Thule: Heh heh. Avarian will rip apart many foes in this story, maybe even some Alliance and Horde if they get in his way!_

_Gogolu: Not exactly. Nurgle is the god of disease and pestilence, and one of his most terrifying contagions is the Curse of Unbelief, which once is allowed to infest, can turn an entire hive city into mindless plague zombies within days and the subsequent planet within weeks._

_ArcherReborn2: I have not prewritten this. All the chapters you have seen are pretty much rough drafts, though I will go over them a few times to check for spelling and grammar errors. I will not reveal anything about the 40k character less it spoil the surprise!_

_Ranger24: Yeah, but the problem is most space marines don't realize that the Emperor understands necessity, which is why astartes tend to do a lot of self blaming._

_Dakaath: Thank you!_

_NecronxSire: I think that judging by our standards, space marines are pretty much insane! However, if you're wondering if Avarian will go ball off the walls insane, then no, he will not. The only thing that will make astartes go off the deep end, are the temptations Chaos offers, and even that will vary to some degree. _

_Mephisteron: Well, there are numerous kings on feudal worlds in the Imperium. Besides, the Emperor is pretty much a god and thus his power will have no comparison, especially to a petty king like Varian. _

_Timewatch: So true!_

_Will of the Emperor: The next few chapters will be centered in the Eastern Kingdoms, though not Stormwind._

Chapter 20

Tirisfal Glades was once a peaceful place. Situated just north of the capitol of Lordaeron, its people were safeguarded by the armies of King Terenas as well as the legendary Guardians of Tirisfal. For centuries no conflict assailed this quiet vale, leaving its inhabitants to live merry on simple farms and small towns. The picture perfect of the uncomplicated village life.

Now, it was a shadow of its former splendor.

The plague of the Lich King encroached from the Western Plaguelands like a slow carpet of doom, blighting everything it touched with the curse of undeath. The nutritious dirt that allowed generations of farmers to produce annual harvests with impunity was first to feel the kiss of the death pestilence. The once life giving soil was tainted beyond repair, the very earth turning dry and lifeless. With the loam corrupted, the local flora was the next to be affected by the infectious disease. The magnificent forests of Tirisfal, said to possess some of the oldest trees in Azeroth, shriveled and died, leaving naught but twisted skeletons of desiccated bark in their wake. With the vegetation all but gone, the indigenous herbivores starved. What was once a woodland bountiful with life, was soon a natural graveyard filled with the gaunt corpses of malnourished creatures. In a cruel affront to nature, the death plague soon brought these innocent animals back to life, their shambling, decayed forms wondering throughout the darkened woods as a haunting parody of their previous selves. The predators, with the option to either waste away from hunger or feast on diseased flesh, were forced to choose the latter. It was an innate decision that would damn them forever alongside their plant eating kin.

The skies above Tirisfal Glades felt the pain of the earth, and in sorrow, changed into a forever gloomy color of blotted green.

It was a fitting burial ground for Instructor Malicia.

The high elf's breath came out in ragged gasps, her frail form weaving haphazardly among the dark gloom cast by long dead trees. Her once stately robes were tattered and ripped, evidence of the long and tortuous flight that had drained her so. Sweat glistened from her exposed face, dripping down in rivulets as she continued her frenzied escape.

How long? How long had she remained in Scholomance's twisted labyrinth? How long had she been a thrall to the Lich King? How long had she shed the blood of innocents to please an undeserving master?

Malicia could not remember. The years she had spent underneath the ruined House of Barov, teaching countless members of the Cult of the Damned in the ways of dark magic, was a miasma of horror to her. Fleeting memories, ghastly and terrifying, were all she could glimpse in the settled veil of her confused mind.

Who had she been before her wicked service to the Scourge influenced Barovs? The quel'dorei did not know. Her name was Instructor Malicia, bestowed upon her by the lich, Ras Frostwhisper. Now, in her flight, she wanted to cast the title away to the four winds, unwilling to remain the cruel servant it identified her as. But she could not, for it was the only semblance of herself she could distinguish. She was forced to cling to this dirty title, for to lose it, was to lose sight of who she was.

A low, undulating moan sounded in the distance, sending pinpricks of dread along the back of her neck.

The high elf gave a sob of despair as she forced her drained legs to move faster.

Her masters had sent their diseased creations to hunt her down.

Her journey had purposely avoided the Bulwark, for she knew if the Argent guards recognized her, they would show no mercy. Instead, Malicia had climbed the numerous cliffs protecting the Tirisfal valley, both in an attempt to circumvent the Argent Crusade and to flee from her undead pursuers. While evading the notice of the living had been successful, escaping from the dead was a whole another matter.

She did not want to die. Not yet. She knew she had wronged so many in her dark past. She knew no amount of purifying water could wash away the blood that stained her hands. She knew her soul was undeserving of being saved. These things she knew, but denied. She could not accept a death without purpose, an end without function. Every part of her tired body begged for the redemption that was deprived from her.

The rasping groan was closer now. It was hopeless. She could never fully sever the tendrils the Lich King had wrapped around her. To serve him in life or to serve him in death. She could not forestall this fate.

Malicia collapsed, her slight frame slumping to the ground in an exhausted heap.

* * *

"Forgive me, O'Lord, for my blasphemous transgressions."

My lips move rapidly as I intone the Catechism of Self Absolution.

"Forgive me, O'Master of Mankind, for my sacrilegious contraventions."

The servos in my power armor whirr with the motion of my legs, carrying me ever deeper into the darkened gloom of this strange forest.

"Forgive me, O'Great Protector, for my irreverent disobedience."

My enhanced vision discerns deep into the murky darkness of this tainted woodland. I see plague ridden creatures stumbling blindly about, their hides thick with bulbous protrusions, seeping with pus. I see the limp stems of dying vegetation, drooping leaves carpeting the discolored dirt in defeat. I see an unending habitat of twisted corruption and vile mutation. I see the shadow that must be cleansed by the light.

"O'Emperor, on top of thy Golden Throne, grant me the strength to continue my devotions to thee."

I pause to regard the carcass of an emaciated horned beast, its quadrupedal body decayed to a near unrecognizable state.

"O'Emperor, on top of thy Golden Throne, grant me the vigor to continue my worship of thee."

My visor display focuses on the beast. It is some form of local herbivore. Though not anymore. The animal's skin is a hideous mismatch of bared, diseased hide and small ragged holes. I wonder what could have caused such a palpable transformation in this beast. I glimpse a faint wriggling movement, betrayed by a stray glimmer of light. I magnify the view presented by my battle helm.

Maggots. Plump, writhing maggots. Their squirming, fat forms crawl slowly along the beast's corpse, gorging on rotten meat. I am suddenly reminded of the plague worms of Eypdmas IV, whose mere bite could turn a man into a pain wracked mess within minutes. The death world was a prime training ground for our chapter, and more than once we lost neophytes to the insectoid's virus laden maws.

I snarl slightly at the memory.

A gelatinous orb that was once an eye swivels towards my direction. I resist the sudden impulse to step back. The damned thing is still alive!

"O'Emperor, on top of thy Golden Throne, grant me the courage to continue my service to thee."

I punctuate the last three words of the verse with a forceful stomp, my ceramite heel grinding the creature's skull into a fine powder of bone fragments. A merciful end to its suffering.

What foul sorceries have corrupted this environment? The putrefying stench, the plague ridden plants, the pus bloated creatures all point to the work of foul Nurgle, however, I do not see its mark anywhere. Curious. The typical followers of the god of contagion were not ones to hide their profane symbols of adoration. The taint here speaks of some other evil power that I know not of.

My Lyman's Ear picks up a throaty moan in the distance.

I see a chance to atone for my sins. If I can find the source of this infection and purge it from existence, then my crime of helping the ork will be forgiven. Prayers are effective at rejuvenating the spirit and steeling the mind, but it is only through glorious battle that I can truly earn redemption in the Emperor's eyes.

I stalk towards the sound, boltgun gripped tightly in armored gauntlets. I am thankful that I had the foresight to replenish my ammo stock at my grounded Land Speeder before my journey of meditation. I unsheathe the combat blade unused since Astanaar.

My twin hearts begin to surge with adrenaline at the prospect of war.

* * *

Sylvanas grimaced as her gaze shifted to the bulky machine that sat brazenly at the entrance to the Ruins of Lordaeron. The giant had moved incredibly fast after the incident between Thrall and Varian Wyrnn, so fast in fact, that she could barely register his direction before he disappeared into the dusk of Tirisfal Glades.

The Banshee Queen growled in annoyance.

How could she gain this new ally without meeting him? Time was not on her side.

"Dark Lady," Thrall's commanding tone forced the queen of the Forsaken to turn her attention away from the vehicle.

"Warchief, I thank you for the assistance of the Horde in dealing with the traitor, Varimathras," her sibilant voice carried a measure of apprehension.

The orc chieftan regarded her sternly, his intelligent eyes spearing her with a knowing look.

"Your thanks is noted, but unnecessary. We are all Horde, and we are honor bound to aid each other in times of crisis."

Sylvanas smiled at this, her features a mask of respect. Inwardly, she fumed.

In reality, she had only joined the Horde out of necessity, being spurned by the Alliance for the curse of undeath that had taken hold of their bodies. Even as she had knelt before the assembled leaders of the Horde to plead her case, she had promised to herself, that one day, they would in turn grovel before her, their frames wracked with the same ailment that assailed the Forsaken.

Now, with the dreadlord's betrayal and the subsequent unveiling of her schemes, such a promise seemed as distant as the stars.

"Besides," continued Thrall, "I believe your gratitude should not all be directed towards me."

The Dark Lady nodded in consent. It was true. Without Avarian's quick and merciless assault on the ranks of the Burning Legion, who knew what further harm Varimathras could have inflicted? Judging from the accounts of the giant's three companions, they had interfered just in time to prevent the nathrezim from summoning forth a great evil. Sylvanas shuddered at the thought of what demonic entity her former advisor would have brought forth to cement his treachery.

Speaking of his companions…

The Banshee Queen sighted the blood elf, a rogue judging from her garments and weapons. The sin'dorei was busy tampering with her daggers, applying another layer of poisons to the serrated blades. The orc, Karduk, Thrall had called him, was in the spotlight of a crowd of Kor'kron Guard, highlighting the feats of Avarian with descriptive words and sweeping hand gestures. Judging from the occasional bellow of approval from the orcs, his account was being viewed very favorably. The Dark Lady smirked slightly as her gaze found the last of Avarian's cohorts, a kaldorei nursing a bandaged leg. The night elf was in a precarious situation, being surrounded by her hated foes that loathed her just the same. However, she was in the giant's protection, and in light of his contributions in aiding the Horde, she would remain safe from harm.

The warchief caught the direction of her stare and grunted.

"The night elf was with him when he first arrived at Orgrimmar. As was the blood elf. Strange choices for travelling companions."

Sylvanas caught on immediately. A ten thousand year enmity existed between the kaldorei and sin'dorei, caused by the aftermath of the Great Sundering. She had been part of this antagonism in her past life, for she was once a descendent of the Highborne as well.

"Yes, warchief, he is a most interesting man."

Thrall paused at these words. The queen of the Forsaken cursed under her breath. She had not meant to lay such emphasis on her words. The orc chieftan shook his head, as though if clearing a doubt from his mind.

"He is. He travels with members of both factions for company. A rare sight as well as an encouraging one in these troubled days. I believe he will be a worthy ally to the Horde."

In the dark recesses of her mind, Sylvanas switched the words in that last sentence from 'Horde' to 'her'.

"I owe him my life for his actions today. If it were not for him blocking the blow from Stormwind's king, I would have surely been slain. I will not forget this act of honor."

The warchief inclined his head towards the direction Avarian had left, eyes closed in a gesture of respect. All too soon those wise pupils focused back on her.

"However, we have more pressing matter on our hands. With the betrayal at Angrathar hanging over our heads, we cannot afford further escalations against the Alliance. To do so would undermine our efforts in both Northrend and the Outland. We cannot risk a further step towards the path of open conflict between factions."

Thrall gestured towards the Kor'kron orcs behind him.

"My finest warriors will ensure the temporary safety of the Undercity."

The Dark Lady secretly chafed at the warchief's statements. It was a thinly veiled attempt to observe her actions and ensure her good behavior. Not that she could do anything about it. At least not yet. Sylvanas knew she was lucky enough as it was. The fact that Thrall had not simply executed her along with the rest of the Forsaken spoke volumes of his leniency.

"Of course warchief. I will rest easy at night knowing my city is safe in the hands of your champions," her grateful tone hid the fierce hate in her heart.

The orc chieftan grunted in acknowledgment at the praise.

"Once again, your thanks is not necessary. The Horde will do whatever it can to help a fellow member. In any case, Varok is waiting for me at Orgrimmar. The High Overlord and I have much to discuss in regard to these recent developments."

Thrall nodded towards her, before striding away.

The Dark Lady glared daggers at his retreating form.

* * *

Ghouls. They had sent ghouls after her.

Their twisted, hunched frames surrounded the high elf like a pack of predators that had cornered prey. Feral faces rotten with decay leered at her in ravenous hunger. Elongated jaws opened wide in morbid anticipation, dripping with thick ropes of saliva. Clawed hands twitched and shuddered in the unnatural throes of undeath, eager to flay the flesh from her bones.

Malicia rose herself wearily to a sitting position.

One of her pursuers half crawled, half stumbled forward, twin eyes sunken in its sockets gleaming with malicious intelligence.

"Masterrr… Sayyyyyy… Bring youuuu baccckkk… Alive or deaaaddd…" the ghoul's growling, phlegmy voice cut through the eerie silence.

The undead creature continued its advance towards her, forcing the quel'dorei to scrabble backwards to further distance herself from the ghoul.

"Muuussstttt feeeeddddd…" a mouth filled with moldy, cluttered teeth grinned at her.

Her rear connected with an immovable barrier, gnarled surface scraping delicate skin through the flimsy material of her dress. A tree. Damn it! She was truly trapped now! The high elf glared back at the ghoul, her gaze defiant. She was going to die, nothing could change that. But she wasn't going to meet her end a sniveling coward begging for mercy. She promised herself she wouldn't scream when their teeth sank into her skin.

Instructor Malicia spat at the undead beast.

A thunderous boom accompanied her bold action. The ghoul's head disappeared in an eruption of splintered bone chips and shredded flesh.

The quel'dorei blinked. She did not realize her spittle could be so destructive.

Two more raucous roars blasted into her ears. Two more Scourge met the same demise as the first, their shriveled frames sent hurtling back by some tremendous force. This time, a metallic voice, loud in volume and stentorian in tone, joined the tumult.

"Smite now the scions of the Unclean!"

A gargantuan figure strode by her, clad in black, gothic armor. A sneering white helm hid its visage, ruby slits for eyes shining with barely contained malevolence. Its chest was fully one and a half armlengths across, embellished with a silvery skull with outstretched wings. Arms as thick as a tree trunk maneuvered a bulky weapon that resembled a gun into position with practiced ease. An impossibly long blade sprouted forth from the gun, a bayonet that would put the most ardent sword crafters on Azeroth to shame.

The strange being's weapon gave vent to another enormous rumble, the fat cylindrical barrel emitting a flare of bright orange fire. A ghoul's torso exploded, spraying contagion filled blood and decayed organs in a meter-wide expanse.

"To strike them down with bolt and blade!"

The giant surged into battle on powerful legs, lunging forward with the wickedly sharp tip of its gun blade. An undead rattled off a death gasp as the bayonet found purchase in its chest. The metal being lifted the twitching ghoul into the air effortlessly, impaled at the end of its blade, before discarding the corpse with an exert flick of the wrist.

"To sow their fields with the forms of the blasphemous dead!"

A Scourge leapt at the wrathful figure, maw unhinged to bite. A gauntleted hand shot forth and clamped down on the undead's mandible. The giant pulled. The ghoul's head was wrenched from its neck with a splitting crack. In a cursory motion, the putrefied skull was flung away, where it bounced close to Malicia.

The high elf shied away from the carnage just in time for her rescuer's voice to assail her ears again.

"To drown the shrieks of their dying in the thunder of battle!"

The enraged figure pointed his massive weapon one-handed towards the reeling undead crowd. Muzzle flashes emitted a millisecond later, saturating the ghouls with a barrage of projectiles. Deformed bodies ruptured in gory flowers under the lethal salvo, flung like rag dolls back into the ominous dark of Tirisfal.

"To lay waste to their dwellings through hurricanes of fire!"

The free hand clenched into a massive fist that descended like a comet on the stooped form of a decayed monster. The ghoul managed a whimpering mewl before it was smashed savagely into the ground, its bones snapping like twigs from the tremendous blow.

"To wring the hearts of their kin with unavailing grief!"

Without a break in its motion, the giant formed its fist into an open palm, and drove it like a spear unerringly into the tattered chest of another Scourge. The stricken creature gave a howl of anguish as the colossal plated limp disappeared into the confines of its body. The yowl abruptly halted, the ghoul's mouth hanging wide open in a rictus of terror. The metal being's hand remerged, clasping a length of vertebrae that dripped with ichor. The undead sagged into a pile of jerking limbs, the light gone from its eyes.

"I ask of thee, O'Master of Mankind! Grant me the spirit of thy wrath!"

Still gripping the spasming spine of the ghoul, the death avatar swept his gun in a wide arc, barrel flashing with repeated discharge. Spent metal casings spewed forth from a horizontal slot in the huge firearm, falling to the ground like a rain of steel. The last of her pursuers were scythed down without mercy, their hideous forms tumbling back from the immense percussive impact of exploding bullets.

Her rescuer paused. Its gigantic armored frame seemed to droop slightly as the last ghoul was torn in half by an accurate shot. It seemed to be disappointed at the end of such slaughter.

Then it spotted her.

She saw her own reflection, terrified and afraid, in those red glassy slits so devoid of emotion. The giant's gun shifted towards her, the barrel blackened with soot. Malicia laughed at the irony, her breath coming out in short, painful pants. To escape her doom at the hands of the ghouls, only to be slain by this god of death. At least this way, her demise would be short and painless. The high elf shut tight her eyes, awaiting the harsh boom that would send her suffering spirit to rest.

It did not come.

Instead, dull, thudding stomps echoed into her ears. Malicia peeked open one eye. The giant was stalking away from her, his broad back hidden from view under a cumbersome metal pack. The quel'dorei pushed herself back up, her limbs still quivering from fatigue. She staggered after the black clad figure, fresh hope in her heart.

* * *

Weak. Weak! WEAK!!!

My mind screams in frustration. To redeem oneself in the Emperor's eyes is to wage battle against a worthy foe. _Worthy_! The enemies I have just encountered are nothing more than a gaggle of walking corpses, hardly fit as offerings to the alter of war. The cleansing of such filth, though necessary, was not enough to earn His forgiveness. In fact, I probably have shamed the Emperor for wasting bolter rounds against such unworthy opponents!

These thoughts force me onwards, force me to search for more enemies to slay. I am on a mission of penance now, and only through the freshly spilled blood of mankind's enemies shall I earn absolution.

The sound of light footsteps causes me to turn around. My lips curl in distaste as my visor inputs a targeting reticule on the xeno that has been following me. Another of the long eared variety. A purple robe of some delicate fabric is wrapped around her thin frame, the kind used in ceremonies and rituals. Unfortunately for her, such a garment can only serve as a detriment out here in these tainted wilds. My assumption is proven correct as the alien trips over the hem of her dress and lands awkwardly on her face.

I scoff behind my faceplate. Like the foes I have just faced, this xeno is weak. Hardly worth the valuable shell from my boltgun to quell her unworthy existence.

"Halt!"

I curse my lack of foresight. So engrossed was I in observing this wretched alien, I had not paid any heed to my surroundings. I am furious with my failure. Astartes are supposed to remain ever vigilant against the heretic, the mutant, and the xeno. Added to that I am a veteran of my chapter! Such a mistake is common and understandable amongst neophytes, but a shame on hardened warriors such as me.

My eye display spots the being who had uttered the word so commandingly.

It is a human. I think. I cannot tell for sure. Its form is concealed in a suit of heavy plate, dyed red in color. A tabard hangs from his neck, pure white except for the symbol of what looks like a red leaf imprinted in the center. A visored helm decorated with ridiculous wings on each cheek sits on his head. The man hefts a bronze hammer cautiously with both hands, his stance uneasy.

Behind him are half a dozen more similarly clad warriors, radiating the same edgy demeanor.

"Who dares impede an astartes?" I growl menacingly.

"Astartes!?!" I am surprised at the tone of shocked recognition.

"By the Light! Old man Doan was right! The Adeptus Astartes have come at last!" One of the red clothed soldiers cried out enthusiastically.

"The Iron Angels walk the lands again! Light be praised! They will deliver us from the darkness into glorious salvation!"

I am too astonished to respond.


	21. A Startling Discovery

_Dumbledore is Gay: Heh heh… I'm glad to see you enjoy this story so much!_

_Overdrive1: Avarian's history will be revealed in later chapters, so you can judge whether his character is equal to that of Gabriel Angelos! As for a Sister of Battle appearing, well, the last 40k character will not go on a purging spree in Azeroth._

_Xeno Major: I am actually quite satisfied with the overall pacing of this story. If I try to describe every last little event that takes place, we will never see an end! So, whilst there are some minor jumping around, here and there, that is because I do not want to go into detail describing every little thing that would take a whole chapter, or even more, to do._

_Chris Adair: Thank you!_

_Speaker4thesilent: A lot of people have been asking about Avarian's self control, and in reality, I don't see why it is that surprising. Astartes, while utilizing their hate as a weapon, also know that to rely solely on hate would be a path to damnation. Hell, did not the traitor legions fall to Chaos for the very same reason? Indeed, Space Marines, while being taught to abhor the alien, the mutant, and the heretic by their chaplains, must also be taught the meaning of restraint and self-discipline. Of course, this is not standard for all chapters. In regards to your question about the Eldar, well, Avarian has already seen the machinations of Chaos within Blackfathom Deeps. He has seen the daemon portal they were attempting to construct, as well as the chaos spawn in the form of Aku'mai. He has also fought the demons of the Burning Legion, who he thinks are all daemons of Chaos. This is more than evidence enough to convince him that the Eldar's words do contain some modicum of truth._

_Sarge51: Here's more! :P_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Your suspense will be alleviated in this chapter!_

_Gideon020: Thanks!_

_Lunatic Pandora1: Well, Avarian already has a plasma gun. As for a power sword, we'll see._

_RokkitzBoyz: There will be one last character that appears from the 40k universe, and he will side with Avarian, though our hero will have some doubts about him._

_Night Hunter MGS: I agree with you on all accounts in regards to the Scarlet Crusade. They are indeed zealots beyond compare. The question is though, will our Space Marine agree with their actions, or see them as heretics? _

_JagerPanzer: Avarian will show some of the traits his organs have given him to the denizens of Azeroth. However, some Azerothians will learn about all of his enhancements. That however, will be in later chapters, and will prove quite pivotal to the plot._

_Solvdrage: Thank you!_

_ArcherReborn2: Thanks!_

_Peanuckle: Requests are, to me at least, a slippery slope. I cannot guarantee them because I would have trouble fitting them into the already set (mostly) plotline. That does not mean I do not consider requests. Yours, for example, is actually quite feasible. It is not impossible to imagine a greater daemon of some sorts fighting Kil'Jaeden for dominance of the Outland. After all, Chaos loves infighting! However, I can not assure you such an event will take place. I can only say I will reflect on it._

_Dakaath: Believe it or not, thinking up the dialogue between Sylvanas and Thrall as well as the Dark Lady's thoughts was the hardest thing to do in that whole chapter! :P_

_Thekillinglord: You are right in saying that the Astartes will serve no one. I have attempted to display this during the whole affair in Darnassus, though whether it was successful is up to you to judge. However, this does not mean he will spurn the opportunity to aid others if he deems such aid will further the mission at hand._

_Mephisteron: They are indeed my friend, they are indeed! :P_

_Malcho1234: Thanks!_

_Emperor chronicler: I promise you one more elf before I start adding in new characters from different races! Meh, I wouldn't say Avarian will go cleansing Scholomance. He would probably go on cleansing the Eastern and Western Plaguelands as well! _

_Soulless reader: In "Angels of Darkness", Terrorsight is actually a product of the main character's helm. He has to subvocalize commands into his battle helm before his visor allows the X-ray sight to appear. Raven Guard Space Marines, and by extension those Astartes who receive their geneseed, do not possess the mucanroid and the Betcher's gland. If you search for "plague zombies" in Lexicanum, you'll find a short article that details what they are and how they are created. The Curse of Unbelief is the plague that turns them into rotting, disease-filled undead._

_Mattrocks and Zanji: Here is more! _

_Weapon-VII: The funny thing about instance bosses, is that lore-wise, they are all considered alive. In this case, everyone in the Scarlet Monastery, except for Renault Mograine (who is dead in the lore), will be fine and dandy._

_Ranger24: They are the Scarlet Crusade, not the Onslaught._

_Timewatch: Well… you should be! XD_

_ChairForce1987: Arcanist Doan, as described in this chapter._

Chapter 21

They know of Astartes! They know of the Space Marines!

These revelations fill my conscience as I follow these red armored warriors. Renewed faith courses throughout my twin hearts, strengthening my resolve and driving away the doubt that moments ago, plagued my mind. This has to be a sign from the Emperor Himself, a divine omen endowed upon me for my faithful service! There can be no other explanation. How else could I have chanced upon these loyal servants of the Imperium in this tainted forest? How else could I have stumbled upon them when my conviction was at its lowest? Behind my battle helm, my features turn upwards into a grim smile of satisfaction.

However, a faint tinge of uncertainty still lingers in the back of my mind.

The long eared xeno, Keina, did not recognize the Imperium of Man when I first mentioned it. Nor did she realize the significance of my power armor, a sight both feared and respected throughout the galaxy. If these scarlet clad soldiers know of me, surely the elves should to? Of course, the answer is clear to me now! She has been lying to me! Damn these purple aliens! They knew of my existence as the Emperor's Finest, but pretended not to in order to use me for their own fanciful whims! My cleansing of that long underground cavern, my victory over the daemons in their pitiful little town, these were all exploits I did for them, and now they dare show the true face of their treachery? Blasphemous heathens! All of them! I long to bathe them all and their oversized tree dwelling in a blazing conflagration of burning promethium from my flamer.

But if these xenos acted in such a deceitful manner, surely there was no need for the other humans to? Neither the diplomats in Darnassus nor the ruler of Theramore recognized my legendary bearing. Surely, they, above anyone else, should know that I am a Space Marine?

The obvious conclusion is that they are heretics and traitors, having turned their back to the Emperor's benevolent gaze… Except that if they were turncoats to the Imperium, they would have been struck numb with terror at my appearance. Astartes fleets have a reputation for emerging from the Warp to punish traitors on worlds deemed all but impossible to reach. Heretics shiver in fright beneath the dark dank of their hiding holes, for each second they continue their wretched existence is a second their skies might fill with the fiery descending forms of Space Marine drop pods, each filled with superhuman warriors eager to dole out death and retribution. Indeed, the enemies of the Emperor fear many things; they fear discovery, defeat, despair and death. Yet there is one thing they fear above all others. They fear the wrath of the Space Marines.

If Jaina and the other humans are what I think them to be, they would have fled at the mere mention of an Astartes on their world. But, they did not. Instead, they viewed me with can only be described as a mild form of curiosity mixed in with awe and caution. This does not strike me as the craven and spineless nature of a traitor.

My earlier enthusiasm is replaced with perplexed uncertainty. A fierce war is waged in the recesses of my mind as blind faith battles logical pragmatism. I find myself wanting desperately to fall in with these crimson clad warriors, for they are the first ones that know of my station, and in extension of the Imperium. However, I have not seen any indication that this planet is under Imperial authority, nor have I seen any worship of the Emperor.

Something is awry, and I need to find out what.

I push these conflicts from my head as the unmistakable sight of a stone keep looms into view. Built on a rising hill, the mighty bastion commands an imposing view of the surrounding area. I nod grimly, satisfied. Whoever constructed this castle had at least some rudimentary degree of knowledge on the construction of fortified places, though such cognition would be useless against an assault by Astartes.

"Oh Great Iron Angel! We are here!" the lead warrior proclaims.

Iron Angel? This is the second time I have heard this phrase used to describe me. I shrug mentally. There are near a thousand chapters of Space Marines forever guarding mankind, so it is not without reason that these scarlet soldiers have encountered Astartes bearing the color of metal.

The rest turn to me in anticipation as their commander continues, gesturing grandiosely towards the stone fortress.

"Welcome to the Scarlet Monastery!"

* * *

"Damn it! I was so close! Thrall's head was nearly mine!"

Varian Wrynn paced irately to and fro within the white stone walls of Stormwind Palace. Red hot anger threatened to overflow from his seething form, scorching all who dared to stand before his fury. All except one.

Jaina Proudmoore, Lady of Theramore, stood unflinching before her king's wrathful glare.

"If it wasn't for your machinations Jaina, the Undercity would have returned to the rightful hands of the Alliance!" Varian spat.

"My machinations, my king? My so-called machinations have just saved us from a three-front war," the mage replied calmly.

"A war we can win! A war we WILL win!" snarled the king of Stormwind, hands balled into tight fists.

"And how will we do that, my king? Our soldiers in Northrend constantly vie to push back the hordes of the Lich King, while in the Outland; we are in a stalemate in the war against the Burning Legion! If we are to renew our hostility to the Horde, how will we fight? How will we recruit enough soldiers from an already strained population? How will we obtain the funds for a third war when already our people barely manage to meet the current tax? How will we produce the weapons? The armor? The training?"

The Lady of Theramore's words were like a pail of icy water poured on the king's blistering rage. Varian scowled in response, but the anger in his features softened.

"Not only are our forces stretched to a near breaking point," Jaina continued, "constantly we are assailed by new threats. In Northrend, rumors float from the exploration party led by Brann Bronzebeard of some terrible creature from the depths of Storm Peaks. In the Outland, our forces are assaulted daily by demons of the Burning Legion in larger and larger magnitudes. Even within the domains of our realms, we are not safe. Recently, Tyrande Whisperwind has informed me of the horrendous attack on Astranaar as well a dire threat from Blackfathom Deeps. We can thank the giant for quelling these two perils."

Varian stopped pacing as the last statement reached his ears.

"The giant? You mean that traitor whoreson who blocked my strike?" he glowered.

Jaina sighed.

"Yes. Him. The very one, that through his courageous act, kept us from another costly war."

"Courageous? You call preventing me from slaying that greenskin pig courageous?"

The mage gazed defiantly back at him.

"I do."

The fury that had so recently cooled, lit back up like a raging bonfire. The king of Stormwind took an enraged step towards his advisor.

"How can you say that Jaina? The Horde are all unadulterated scum! The destruction they have wrought upon this world! Beyond listing! The innocents they have slaughtered in their disgusting bloodlust! Beyond counting! The suffering they have caused to our people! Beyond remembering! They all deserve nothing more than a painful death!"

The ruler of Theramore refused to buckle under her liege's livid tirade. She remained unruffled, her neutral stare affixed to his heaving frame.

"Would you condemn a man to die for a murder committed by his father?" the mage countered.

"I cannot see what your metaphor has to do with anything."

"Everything, my king. How many citizens of the Horde were actually there during these atrocities? How many actually participated? You would be willing to sentence these guiltless people to their deaths? Even if they were to die, what good will it do? Will the blood spilled bring back our lost ones?"

"But it will bring vengeance! It will bring rightful retribution on their heads!" Varian roared.

"And will that solve anything? You would offset bloodshed with more bloodshed? The Horde and the Alliance are both entrenched on Azeroth. If we were to go to war over past history, how many of us will remain standing in the end? No doubt, there will be a faction that emerges triumphant, but at what cost?" the Lady of Theramore reasoned.

"No cost is too great in ridding this world of the greenskin menace!"

"Is that what you really believe in my lord? Is this the path you will willingly tread? Will you ignore the true enemies of our people, the Scourge and the Burning Legion, just to satiate your lust for revenge?"

The king slumped into his throne, defeated.

"Then what will you have me do, Jaina? I cannot simply let these monsters have free reign on Azeroth!"

"You must, my lord! It is only through a combined strength of arms that our enemies can be defeated! We must unite with the Horde!"

"NEVER!!!" Varian leapt from his seated position, fresh wrath etched on his face, "I WOULD RATHER BE THROWN INTO THE DARKEST PITS OF HELL THAN ALLY MYSELF WITH HORDE SCUM!!!"

"My king---" the mage rose her hands up in a placating manner.

"Away with you! I will not heed any more of your words today," the lord of Stormwind growled darkly, his armored body tense and trembling with resentment "you are dismissed. I will call upon you when I am in need of further advice."

Jaina nodded faintly and bowed; a mask of disappointment on her countenance. The reagent of Theramore strode resignedly towards the gated doorway, the hem of her dress lightly touching the ground. Suddenly, she halted and turned.

"Varian. I know what the orcs did to you was… beyond forgivable. But you must remember you are a leader now. You must put aside your prejudices for the sake of our people."

The mage bowed once more before continuing her leave. Varian glowered at her retreating form.

He knew what was good for his own people, damn it! The Horde could not be, nor ever be trusted! Too much blood stained their hands for any form of reconciliation. Murderous orcs, cannibalistic trolls, beastmen tauren, corrupted undead. These were the denizens of the Horde. Treacherous and vile filth! Jaina was a fool to place her trust in them, just because one particular orc struck her fancy. How could she lecture him on his duties when she was so willing to place the Horde on such an undeserved pedestal? How could she not understand what he wanted to do, would irrevocably benefit the Alliance?

"_She does not understand because she chooses not to my lord,"_ a sonorous voice leeched into his mind, dripping with honeyed syllables, _"She fears the power you wield, the might you bear. But, rest assured my lord Wrynn, I understand your hardships. I understand them very well…"_

* * *

Out of the frying pan, into the fire could barely describe her situation. Almost eaten alive by ghouls, only to be saved by a mysterious giant and then handed over to the Scarlet Crusade? If it wasn't for the fact she was accompanied on both sides by two very intimidating Scarlet Champions, Instructor Malicia would be laughing at her own ironic misfortune. Who knew what these red clad fanatics would do to her once they found our her past affiliations?

Such a fate, however horrific, held no sway over the high elf. She had resigned herself to death, whether at the hands of the Scourge or their enemies. She deserved nothing less. The acts of cruelty she had wrought under the Lich King's sway could not be forgiven or forgotten. Her soul was wracked with pain as each and every memory drifted in a haze over her suffering conscience. Such spiritual agony could only be uplifted with the transcendence into death. Indeed, as she fled from the underground lair of Scholomance, the thought of ending her own life flared intermittently into her mind more than once.

But suicide was for the weak. And she was anything but weak. The fierce fire of redemption burned brightly in her. She wanted to make amends, somehow, someway, for her errors. She wanted to destroy the very evil that had once taken hold of her. She wanted to ensure the same evil would never again stalk the lands of Azeroth. If not for her own thirst for revenge, then for those she had so unwittingly betrayed.

Such a hope had all but died when the ghouls surrounded her. Now, with her rescue, it blazed like the fury of a thousand suns.

Her savior was three steps in front of her, his massive bulk radiating an aura of confidence that the former Scourge underling found to be strangely comforting. His steps were quick and concise, beating a constant drumbeat against the stone tiled floor. His shoulders, encased in two massive pauldrons, were straight and resolute, emanating an air of fierce pride and regal bearing. She could not see the face that dreadful helm hid, and it irked her to no end. She wanted to know what he looked like, for he had saved the faint flame of her life that was so close to being extinguished.

She was not the only one to take notice of this strange, yet powerful being.

Scarlet Crusaders visibly quaked as the giant strode past. Men and women, who had seen the terrors of the Scourge unleashed, opened their mouths to gape in silent wonder at his gargantuan frame. Warriors who had known the horrors of war in all its entirety, stopped to gawk at the sight of his black armor. Soldiers who had spent their entire lives battling the undead hordes of Arthas, dropped their weapons from suddenly nerveless fingers, their eyes widening in awe as the Iron Angel tread past.

Some knelt immediately to pray, Malicia's sensitive hearing picking out words such as 'salvation' and 'deliverance' from their fervent mumblings. Others cheered boisterously, punching mailed fists into the air as though if Anduin Lothar himself had risen from the grave. Most flocked around him, reaching out with eager hands to touch the black plate clad on his body.

Malicia rose one inquisitive eyebrow.

If such a being was this revered by the Scarlet Crusade, how come she had not heard of him? She was ranked high among the many ranks of Scholomance, and such news would be the first to reach her attention. Was he some secret weapon, unleashed by these religious madmen? The quel'dorei doubted it. She saw the slight bemusement in his stance. He was just as confounded by this as her.

The same Scarlet commander who had led them here beamed upwards at the giant.

"O' Great One! Arcanist Doan had told us you and your kind would once again descend from the heavens to deliver us from the darkness! It is an honor for me, as for all of us to be in your presence!"

A chorus of shouted assents assailed her ears. She shuddered at the zealotry behind the cacophony of voices.

"Arcanist… Doan?" the giant's own tone was a rumbling, rasping sound that sounded more machine than human.

"Yes, lord! He is our valued guardian of the arcane. It was he who first discovered your kind's magnanimous presence!"

"Take me to this… Doan," the Iron Angel ordered.

"At once sire!"

Like a parting wave, the crowd of Scaret Crusaders moved aside to let the giant and his impromptu guide pass. Malicia made to follow, but an armored gauntlet suddenly seized her limb and pulled, jerking the high elf from her feet. She landed heavily on her rump. The quel'dorei looked up to see both of her self-appointed guards glaring at her with obvious distaste.

"What makes you think you're faithful enough to follow the Iron Angel?" one of the red clad warriors hefted a sizable warhammer, tracing the weapon's blunt edge with unmistakable intent.

"Filthy she-elf! Killing you would be doing my duty to the Light!" the other, the one who had dragged her down, unsheathed his sword, and displayed the gleaming blade in front of her face.

Her survival instinct screamed at her to do something. She couldn't die! At least not yet! Not until she had redeemed herself! She would not allow herself to have suffered so much only to meet such an ignominious end at the hands of these two fanatics.

In the throes of panic, her lips parted to say the first words that came into her mind.

"You can't! I-I am his servant!" the high elf declared in what she hoped was a haughty manner, desperately trying to keep the fear from her voice.

Instructor Malicia was suddenly keenly aware of the multitude of glares shot towards her direction, each betraying anger, hatred, and… jealousy? The quel'dorei wondered briefly about her own sanity before she was jostled towards the giant's retreating form, pushed rudely from the back by the same two men who seconds ago, had been so willing to execute her.

* * *

Arcanist Doan is younger than I thought one of his station would be. A fierce orange sideburn sprouts from his face, undimmed by the trials of age. His scalp is bald, whether shaved for fashion or devoid of hair due to stress, I know not. An embroidered robe hangs comfortably from his frame, etched in red like his cohorts. A long staff with some sort of emerald crystal for a head is clenched in one hand.

Said staff drops unceremoniously to the floor as this Doan spots my advancing form, along with the crowd of scarlet clad humans tagging along behind my gait.

The arcanist hurries forward, dropping to his knees to kneel in supplication.

"My lord! You have returned to us! I believed! I believed with all my heart! And now my faith is rewarded! Oh thank you Iron Angel!"

Behind my faceplate, my features scowl slightly at these words. Astartes are seen by the people of the Imperium as the Emperor's own flesh and mould, and rightfully so. However, we do not seek to be worshipped. Though compared to regular men, we are almost god-like in contrast, we know that even our prodigious strengths cannot match the Immortal Emperor's. I have seen the adulation in the eyes of these scarlet warriors, and I do not like it one bit. Their faith should be exclusively reserved for the Father of Mankind.

"Do not debase yourself before me, arcanist," I grunt, trying to be amicable, "I do not deserve such devotion. Save it for He who is greater than I."

"Oh, but you do lord! You are an Iron Angel, and you have come back to us once more to lead us to salvation."

"That is the Emperor's work. To compare me with Him would be a grave sacrilege," I admonish him lightly.

Doan's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Emperor? I'm afraid I don't understand my lord. Who is the Emperor? Is he one of the Iron Angels as well?"

My power armored form jolts as cold shock courses through my veins.

"The Emperor! He who protects Mankind! He who forever sits atop the Golden Throne! He who guards our souls from the terrors of the Old Night! You know not of him?" I hiss.

The arcanist takes a step back at my sudden vehemence.

"I-I do not my lord."

A wave of disappointment washes over me, filling me with its repugnance. My hopes are being dashed apart as we speak.

"Then the Imperium! Surely you know of the Imperium! A mighty empire spanning the entire galaxy, encompassing a billion worlds!" my voice has grown frantic, desperate to salvage the situation.

"I do not know of that either."

My twin hearts cry out in frustration.

"Then how… How do you know of me? Of Astartes?" my tone has turned into a threatening snarl.

"That is a question I can answer, Iron Angel!"

Doan searches the depths of his robe and produces a thin, rectangular object. I reach out with a gauntleted hand and take the offered item. I bring it close to my visor and study it intently. It is a vid-slate. And a very old one at that. Common from hive worlds to agri-planets, such devices are used for a variety of reasons ranging from entertainment to communication. I do not see how such a gadget could possibly foretell of my coming to these feudal people. That is, until I flip it around and see the symbol of the aquilla engraved on its back along with three blocks of lettering:

"**55****th**** Expeditionary Fleet**"

The Great Crusade…


	22. April's Fools!

**HAI GAIZ!!! I HAVE REALIZED THAT TWILIGHT IS DA BEST BOOK EVAHHHH!!!!! NOTICE MY JOY AND GLEE IN FINDING SUCH A FANTASTIC AND PLOT DRIVEN BOOK THROUGH THE USAGE OF ALL CAPS IN THIS MESSAGE!!! ALSO NOTE THE MISSPELLED WORDS DUE TO MY BRAIN FUNCTIONING LIKE A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL AFTER READING THROUGH THE MAGNIFICENT WORK OF FICTION THAT IS TWILIGHT!!!**

**Due to this, I will no longer be updating the God of Death. For all of you expecting another chapter, well too bad!!! Edward is soooooooo awesomer than any Space Marine, and Bella is soooooooo prettier than any warcraft chicks! **

**TAKE A LOOK AT MY CURRENT WORK ABOUT TWILIGHT!!!**

**Edward was so white, the whiteness of his white face was reflected back onto his white countenance like the whiteness of a thousand white doves mating with white belugas over the white tundra. He also glittered. And that was because the white genes within his white body was as pale as the whiteness that enveloped his white face like the whiteness of vanilla white ice cream.**

**Bella was so stricken with love at the sight of the creamy whiteness that was this teenage boy. It was because he was really, really white. And because of the glitter. No. It was because he was sickenly white. Or because of the glitter. Fuck, it was because he was both white and glittery.**

**And the glitter! Bella could not turn away from such glittery goodness! It was as though if a kindergartener with a distinctive lack of artistic talent sprayed him with sparkles. Now Bella, being the shallow girl that she was, decided immediately that Edward had to be hers. Because he sparkled. And was white. And was totally awesomely and fabulously handsome. Did I mention he glittered? Because that's why he's so awesome and sexy. Because he sparkles. Fuck yeah, he sparkles.**

**!!!!!!!!!**

**But Bella couldn't obtain Edward right away. Because he was a motherfucking vampire!!! OMFG!!! HE SPARKLED AND HAD AN INCREDIBLY BAD HAIRDO!!! HE MUST BE A VAMPIRE!!!!!!! Bella was so struck with the awesomeness that was this thin, frail looking vampire, she rose up and punched the first kid she saw in the face. Hell yeah. But then that kid turned out to be a gigantic werewolf!!! OH GAWD WHAT WOULD SHE DO NOW!?!?!? **

**PLEASE WRITE AND REVIEW GAIZ!!!**

**If you haven't figured it out already, April Fool's!**


	23. An Experience with the Past

**Author's Note: -Inhales deep breath- Ahem… APRIL'S FOOLS!!! Bwahahahah! I can't believe most of you fell for it! You guys do know I have a crossover fic about the Death Spectres completely curb stomping the Twilight universe right? That should have been your first clue this was all a joke! The second should have been the deeply sarcastic sentences I have written in both the description of the story and the abomination that was in lieu of chapter 22. Still, twice the reviews in eight hours for this four hundred word document as compared to some of my longer chapters in three days… I'm tempted to do this more often! :P I kid… I kid… Anyways, everyone is welcome to review my chapters, whether you have a question or a criticism or simply want to give me a pat on the back!**

_the unknown and Sarge51: Thanks a bunch!_

_Leafy8765: Your guess is as good as anyone else's!_

_Emperor chronicler: Hmmm, he might not need all of that future tech for a good old cleansing… just a lot of manpower! Varian Wyrnn's fate has not been decided yet, so we'll see how it goes. If he does die, Avarian might have to step in the king of Stormwind's boots a little bit. If Varian lives, then not so much._

_JagerPanzer: Heh, maybe! Though a normal psyker won't be able to send communications through the Warp. You would need an astropath for that._

_Thule: Thanks! A Sister of Battle eh? Possible, but I won't discern the full details of the last 40k character. And Avarian will utilize all the equipment in his arsenal more than once, depending on the occasion._

_Xynth: The legion that crewed the 55__th__ Fleet will also not be revealed, since it will have an effect on the plotline. However, there is a hint in this chapter that should give you a pretty good guess of which legion it is._

_Dusel: WoW indeed…_

_Skipper 1337: Thanks! I had hoped my characterization of Jaina was correct. In your regards to Varian turning to Khorne, well, the sorcerer is a worshipper of Chaos Undivided, so we'll see._

_Drasonz: Be sure to make the hero for Avarian's faction a nine foot tall superhuman killing machine that can instant kill everything!_

_Vashanti: The details are in this chapter! :P_

_Xeno Major: The Expeditionary Fleets of the Great Crusade are numbered from one to some thousands. So naturally, the Astartes first thought of the 55__th__ would be that it belongs to the Great Crusade._

_Gideon020: Your questions will be revealed in this chapter._

_Peanuckle: Lord Solar Macharius led a separate crusade nearly five thousand years after the Emperor's Great Crusade. You will begin to see conflicts and schisms among Avarian's own party very soon!_

_U.N.S.: Thank you! There will be the addition of one more 40k character, so no entire Guard regiments or Space Marine companies._

_Gforce member45: Thank you!_

_Akira Stridder: I aim to please! :P_

_Mephisteron: Thank you! The Imperial Cult may very well be established within the next few chapters. As for the harem thing, it may appear I am overdoing it, but rest assured, this story will be more than the romance conflicts of Avarian's female companions. I also plan to introduce a good amount of male characters into our hero's little band as well._

_Thekilleregglord: Heh, we'll see. Some of your ideas may very well come true!_

_Timewatch: Perhaps the Bronze Dragonflight would be willing to answer your question?_

_Soulless Reader: The "Angels of Darkness" isn't a Horus Heresy novel at all. It's a story detailing the Dark Angels and their hunt for the Fallen. A fascinating read, and I strongly recommend it. As much as I want to show you guys some glimpse of the last character, to do so would ruin the moment of "Ohhhhhh… Everything makes sense now!" So, you're just going to have to read on!_

_ArcherReborn2: To heighten the tension… Bwahahahah…_

_Lunatic Pandora 1: The slate was a relic of the Great Crusade, a monumental period of time ten thousand years ago when humanity was at the peak of its power._

_Dakaath: Thanks! You'll see some Horus Heresy fluff for now, but not all of it. Most of the HH stuff will be covered around chapter 40ish or so._

_Knives91: Thank you!_

_Vanbor the Fire Mage: I thought this story was epic when the first chapter came out… lawl, I kid. _

_Malcho1234: This chapter will answer your questions!_

_Ranger24: Well, this story will not strictly follow canon or the WoW timeline. So though technically much of the Scarlet Crusade should be dead, left behind by the Scarlet Onslaught, such an event will not be taking place in my fic. _

_Once again, everyone is welcome to review and criticize!_

Chapter 22

By the Throne… The Great Crusade! It has to be! The Expeditionary Fleets sent by the Adeptus Mechanicus are numbered in the ten thousands, as are the pioneer fleets occasionally sent to colonize worlds. The 55th has to be one of the earlier flotillas, perhaps crewed by a primarch, or even by the Emperor Himself!

I eagerly flip the vid-slate on its back. My thumb hovers over the activation button expectantly. A sudden thought strikes me and I pause in mid-action.

What if the 55th was crewed by one of the traitor legions, or even worse, a traitor primarch? The Luna Wolves, the Thousand Sons, the Word Bearers, the Night Lords, the Iron Warriors, the World Eaters, the Emperor's Children, the Death Guard, and the Alpha Legion were once all proud warriors defending humanity, before the whispers of Chaos damned them for all eternity. They were once the embodiment of mankind's virtue and strength, before they spat on their oaths of loyalty out of hubris and treachery. Before their subsequent fall during the Horus Heresy however, their fleets, like those of the loyalists, streaked a path of vengeance and retribution across the stars, destroying the xeno and the mutant and paving the road to a united empire of humanity. It would not be a far stretch of imagination to think the 55th fleet ferried one of these turncoat legions throughout the events of the Great Crusade.

But then, what if this armada was crewed by the elements of a legion loyal to the Emperor? It could have carried warriors of the noble Ultramarines, or of the stalwart Salamanders, or of the doughty Imperial Fists, perhaps of the fast-striking White Scars, maybe of the unflinching Iron Hands, the beatific Blood Angels, the mysterious Dark Angels, the feral Space Wolves, or even Astartes from my own progenitor legion, the Raven Guard!

I strike these contemplations away from my mind. The mystery at hand needs to be solved first and foremost. I can think of what to do next when I gain the knowledge from this vid-slate.

My thumb connects with the square activation rune. A hiss of distorted static follows my act. The screen cackles into life, displaying the double-headed eagle of the Imperium on a grey background. Nothing else. I stare blankly at the display, confused. Did I not treat this piece of archeotech with enough reverence? Surely the machine spirit is not angered at me?

My worries are quelled when an aged, reedy voice emits from the slate's speakers.

_"I am Remembrancer Dvaren Torias, formerly of the 55__th__ Expeditionary Fleet. Nearly a hundred years have passed since I first set foot on this world, at the bequest of the Lord of the Armada. I have made many recordings of life on this liberated planet. This will be my last and final one,"_ I blink in surprise. Remembrancer? I have heard of no such rank in the sermons delivered by the Codiciers of the Librarium regarding this period of history.

_"I am nothing but an old man now,"_ the voice continues, albeit in a sad and remorseful tone, _"nothing like the young 'un so full of vigor and energy when I first volunteered my services to the crusade."_

A brief moment of silence elapses before Torias begins again, this time with pride and gusto.

"_But, I have not lost my purpose! No! For near a hundred years I have taught to these people the meaning of the Imperial Creed! I watched with satisfaction as these backwards natives who were once terrorized by foul xenos and aliens progressed into a feudal and established world. In a span of merely a century, the works of the Great Crusade are already evident. Infant mortality rates have decreased dramatically, yearly harvests are producing more and more consumables, and most importantly, the humans on this planet have developed great and outstanding armies, more than capable of turning back the treacherous tide of tainted creatures that threatened them when we first landed on this world. I can only imagine what another hundred years will bring to these fine men and women."_

Another pause. This remembrancer is either too senile to think fluently or has too many thoughts to articulate. I wait impatiently for him to start again.

"_Of course, I cannot attribute these successes to myself nor to the few dozen Imperial personnel that have come to call this place home. No, the victory here, I can commemorate only to the Great Father of Mankind. Without His Glory, there would be no Great Crusade, and no salvation to humanity. It is through His divine majesty that allows fresh energy to flow through my veins, so that I may continue to further the goals of mankind."_

I nod at this, satisfied. It is good to see some faith on this planet, even if it is ten thousand years in the making.

_"However, I am not here to talk about events of time past. As I have said before, this will be my last recording. It is not my intent for it to become a lecture for future historians to bicker and quarrel about. I plan for this slate and its contents to become a beacon of hope in trying times, a glimmer of light in the darkness, a torch of deliverance when all else fades to obscurity. This slate will contain the information, as I have gleamed it, of the Adeptus Astartes, of the Space Marines."_

The rectangular screen fizzles in response to Torias's words. The aquilla is gone, replaced momentarily by inky darkness, before the black and white footage of a pict-feed flashes into view. I gasp at the sight before me. It is a metal clad figure, marching forward, its gait focused and determined. Segmented armor plates are riveted around its imposing frame, festooned with metal studs. Fat pauldrons project outwards, decorated with ancient heraldry and thin, flowery lines of writing. A cumbersome helm covers its head, topped with an iron spike. I recognize it immediately for what it is. MK II Power Armor, commonly known as Crusade Armor. In this Astartes's hands is a primitive precursor of my own Godwyn pattern boltgun, with a sarissa bayonet attached to bottom of the handguard. The pre-Heresy Marine lets loose a fusillade of fire from his antiquated weapon, saturating some target off-screen with bolt rounds.

_"The Space Marines. The Angels of Death. There have been no greater heroes to mankind than these brave warriors. Like avenging gods they descend upon the enemies of humanity, their swords blazing with fury, their guns booming with rage. No one has escaped their wrath, and no one ever will. Led by the primarchs, walking deities among normal men, they will set ablaze the galaxy with righteous fire, purging the foulness of the alien and the mutant away in a tidal wave of destruction… But, enough of my zealous ranting. I will allow this vid-slate to speak for itself."_

The Astartes disappears, his image replaced with the Imperial Eagle once more. A brief second slips by before another feed materializes on the display. A different Space Marine is captured in the footage, this one wielding the unmistakable tube-like shape of a missile launcher. I note the upside down omega symbol adorned on the center of one shoulder plate. One of Gulliman's favored sons, one of the Ultramarines. A blossoming cloud of fire emits from the launcher's barrel, temporarily obstructing the Marine from view. The elongated shape of a krak missile lurches from the circular maw of the weapon, almost too fast to see even for my enhanced eyes.

The Ultramarine vanishes from the screen. Another of my ancient brethren is exhibited, this one wearing the long snouted helm typical of the MK IV power armor variant. I note the heraldry of this Marine with hatred in my twin hearts. A wolf's head over a crescent moon. The symbol of the then loyal Luna Wolves. This Space Marine is an officer, evident by the arching crest of plumed hair sprouting from his helmet. The Wolf's name is imprinted on one pauldron. _Garviel Loken_. I sneer behind my own ceramite faceplate. No doubt this one cast away his allegiance to the Emperor as well when he followed Horus onto the path of treason. Scum like him are the reason why the people of the Imperium have had to endure ten millennia of hardships and suffering.

My fierce loathing wanes as the footage of the cursed descendent of Horus fades. My gauntlet squeezes the slate slightly, my mind contemplating whether or not I should crush this source of heresy for its audacity to exhibit such sacrilegious material. I am interrupted in my deliberation when a fresh feed cackles into view. Another Astartes moves into the display, the cylindrical jump packs attached to his back sputtering with power. One hand holds a revving chainsword, stained dark with blood. The other clasps the short stocky form of a bolt pistol, devoid of its magazine. The Marine tenses, thick legs braced against the paved earth. Twin blasts of flame spews from the jump pack's engine turbines.

Before the pillars of fire lifts the Astartes from view, I catch sight of the symbol etched onto his armor. The symbol of the Raven Guard.

* * *

Sylvanas seethed inwardly as she strode through the moldy halls of the Undercity. Kor'kron orcs walked the dank passageways alongside her, speaking in their guttural tongue. She fought down the urge to glower. It chafed her to no end that she was put under surveillance by these uncouth creatures. However, her position within the Horde was in danger of being usurped, no doubt due to the atrocity at the Wrathgate. She would have to bear with this indignity if she wished to remain in the good graces of Thrall and the other leaders of influence.

The Dark Lady halted in front of the entrance to her throne room. Turning, she gestured for the Kor'kron warriors to stop. She would need to assess the damage done to her place of power. To her surprise, they did not heed her instruction at all. Instead, the plate clad orcs dispersed in pairs, moving efficiently and confidently towards the myriad corridors of her city. A patrolling pattern, the Banshee Queen realized with a barely concealed snarl.

Not all of them disbanded. A dozen or so still stood around her, their eyes affixed not to her, but to the room behind her. Sylvanas clenched her fists tightly. Did this surveillance intrude into her own private quarters as well?

"Leave," she hissed.

"No can do Dark Lady," grunted one of the orcs, a Bragor Bloodfist if she recalled correctly, "We're to maintain maximum security here, by the warchief's orders. That extends to your own quarters too."

His statement confirmed her fears.

"I will not have the privacy of my own throne room despoiled," the Banshee Queen growled dangerously.

"We do not intend to despoil your privacy, Dark Lady, merely fortify it with our presence," Bragor was being persistently polite. Thrall had chosen well, this head overseer for the Undercity.

"I am a faction leader of the Horde! I do not need your security! I am more than capable of taking care of myself!" She continued her protest vehemently.

"Yes, and we all know where that lead to," replied the Kor'kron leader dryly. The orcs behind him glared at her in hatred, pupils dilating in barely contained fury behind black horned helms.

"And if I do not comply with your wishes?"

A grim smile spread on the orc's lips as he hefted an enormous axe lightly with one hand.

"The results will be most unpleasant."

Sylvanas paused, fierce anger coursing through her lifeless veins. She struggled to fight the emotion down. He was threatening her. Oh how badly she wanted to destroy this orc here and now for his impudence. But she could not. The warchief's eyes were everywhere, and she could not afford further mistakes. Not after Angrathar.

"Very well… However, I wish to remain alone in my chambers, for a brief time at least," the queen of the Forsaken replied sullenly, pretending to be defeated.

Bragor snorted at this, but nodded, his wary eyes glued to her frame.

"You have ten minutes."

The Banshee Queen fumed secretly at the orc's arrogance. How dare he order her around?!? Who was he to give her commands?!? She had not suffered through Arthas's torture just so this overseer could control her! She spun on her heel and stalked into the suffocating confines of the hallway, her pace quick and sudden. Ten minutes was not a long time for her planned discussion, but it would have to do.

She arrived at the raised, circular platform where she resided on normal days. Varimathras's iron chest plate and vambraces were still visible a few meters to the side of the dais, the dreadlord's body having disappeared into the Twisting Nether. The fury that she had only just held in check could not be denied any longer. The Dark Lady swept forward and gave the black cuirass a violent kick. The breast plate clanged as it skidded across the tiled floor, a victim of her anger.

"My queen. You do not typically display such aggression," a throaty voice whispered from the shadows.

"These are dark times, apothecary. Mistress has a right to be distressed," another voice dripped sibilantly into her ears.

"I trust both of you were not followed?"

Two figures emerged from a dimly let corner of her throne room. One was swathed in a tattered robe stained with blotches of discolor, evidence of long days and nights toiling away in the depths of the Undercity's Apothecarion. Decayed arms hung loosely from the being's sides, displaying bleached bone where the rot had eaten away flesh. A Forsaken male. The former man's lower jaw was gone, forcing the tongue that usually rested on top of the mandible to droop revoltingly from the ragged hole of a ruined throat.

"Yes, my queen. The secret passageways connecting the throne room to the Apothecarion has not been discovered. Not yet, at least," a deep gurgle sounded from the Forsaken's throat, a disgusting mimicry of the tone of a regular human.

The second figure was of stature similar to her, well-shaped and lithely. This one wore the veil of an experienced hunter around it, its garments hiding the wealth of sheathed weapons around its voluptuous frame. A Dark Ranger. A gloomy purple hood covered the undead elf's head, effectively hiding the woman's face. All that could be seen were two red eyes, glowing with malevolence.

"I would not be one of your favored servants if my skill was so lacking, mistress," the Dark Ranger spoke, her words oozing with self-confidence.

"Indeed. It is good to see the two of you are alive. The treachery of Varimathras has dealt us a dolorous blow," Sylvanas grimaced.

"I have never trusted that deceitful thing. He smelled too much of the demonic."

"I never did place my trust in him either, Cyndia. The dreadlord was merely a means to an end. I have, however, miscalculated just how soon he would betray us," the Banshee Queen admitted.

"A miscalculation that has cost us dear."

"Silence Faranell! You dare imply the mistress was at fault for this?!?"

"I implied nothing. I merely stated a fact," answered the apothecary, his pale countenance betraying no emotion.

"Enough. Both of you. I have called the two of you here for a mission. Not for a quarrel," the Dark Lady growled.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to her direction, one bright crimson, the other sickly yellow.

"Dark Ranger Cyndia. There are is a small party of… adventurers in the courtyard of the Ruins of Lordaeron. A blood elf, an orc, and a night elf. They wait for the return of a certain man. A man I am most interested in. You will help them find him. Once you do, you will accompany his group."

"And what is so special about this… human… male?" Cyndia queried.

"Varimathras is dead because of him. The banishment of a high dreadlord is no small feat, and he did it with ease. The power he wields will be useful to the Forsaken."

"And just how will we persuade such an omnipotent being to our side?"

"If he will not listen to my reasons, then there is another way," Sylvanas paused, her lips twitching upwards into an evil grin, "Master Apothecary Faranell. This is where you come in. You will continue your research in the death plague."

The undead alchemist wore a perplexed expression.

"My lady, is that wise? With the betrayal of Putress and Varimathras, the Horde will have guards breathing down the back of our necks. To continue our work regarding the plague, we would need more equipment and personnel, as well as test subjects. This will not be unnoticed by our overseers."

"That was only because the members of the Royal Apothecary Society have been working en mass. This time, I want your effort alone, Faranell. We do not need copious amounts of the plague. Just enough to… influence… one man."

The apothecary caught on immediately, his pupils shining with eerie light.

"However, the man in question is no normal human," continued the queen of the Forsaken, "there are some aspects of him that are beyond the capabilities of any mortal man. We cannot be sure if the current variation of the disease will affect him. Cyndia. In addition to aiding him in his group, you will gain knowledge regarding him. By any means possible."

"By any means?" the Dark Ranger cooed excitedly.

"Yes. Through any means. You will send periodic reports on your situation as well as your learnings regarding him. Is that clear?"

The Dark Ranger saluted. Sylvanas speared the alchemist a glare. Faranell sighed, and swept his stooped form into a bow, concurring to her plan.

"Very well. You are both dismissed," she ordered.

The two figures nodded and disappeared back into the darkness. The Banshee Queen stared at the spot where they had vanished. A murmur escaped her lips.

"Avarian… If I cannot have you in life… then I will have you in death."

* * *

The World Eater gives a roaring battle-cry, his chain axe caked with gore. Two of his brothers advance past his bellowing form, one pausing to unhook a frag grenade from his belt. The other cradles the lengthy, metal body of a flamer, his power armored frame moving doggedly forward. The World Eater triggers the weapon, and a fiery gush of promethium sprouts from the flamer's barrel, covering a target off-screen with scorching fire. A thrown grenade follows, courtesy of the second Astartes, just as the first one ends his war shout and surges out of view, chain axe sputtering with the eagerness to do battle.

The pict-feed abruptly ends, the two headed eagle of the Imperium replacing the Space Marines that had just recently been in the midst of furious combat. I give a grunt in response, the sound tinged with disappointment. I had been given a glimpse of humanity at the peak of its power, and I was loathe to watch it fade back again into obscurity.

I have seen the ferocious White Scars, mounted on their war bikes, riding gloriously into a bloody mêlée. I have seen the regally clad Emperor's Children stride arrogantly through the ruins of a hive city, bolters blazing with discharge. I have witnessed the Imperial Fists, defending a bastion of the Emperor from the blasphemous forms of some unrecognizable xenos species. I have beheld the sight of Death Guard Space Marines press on stoically through a hail of gunfire, their armor dented with multiple impacts, but their resolve unwavering. I have watched the brutal beauty of a Blood Angels Assault Squad charging into a mob of orks, chainblades screeching with rage. I have seen the harsh ways of the Night Lords, the purplish blue of their armor fading intermittently into the dark as they terrorized a rebel human city. I have observed the overwhelming firepower of Iron Hands Devastators, their heavy weapons delivering accurate death from afar. This and more I have seen. Every Legion, loyalist and traitor I have witnessed through the actions of their respective Astartes.

I am torn between throwing this device to the ground and stomping it into pieces or venerating it as though it were a relic from Corax himself.

The voice of Dvaren Torias cackles once again through the vid-slate's speakers.

_"To whomever finds this device, may it grant you confidence in times of conflict and hope in times of despair. When evil rears its head, have faith in your hearts, for the Space Marines will come to banish the wicked. When all seems to be lost, fight harder, for every second you persevere is a second closer the Angels of Death will come to destroy the foes of humanity. When Darkness threatens to encompass all, do not give in, for the Adeptus Astartes will descend from the heavens on wings of fire, to bring the everlasting Light."_

The room echoes with the remembrancer's parting words. I close my eyes. Such a message was truthful when the Great Crusade was at its zenith. Now, after ten thousand years, it is painfully false. The Space Marines of now were scattered all over the realms of the Emperor. A thousand chapters times a thousand Astartes, and still there was only one Marine for each world held by the Imperium. For every world we delivered from ruin, another fell due to our absence. This was the sad reality of the future.

"My lord?" Arcanist Doan's hesitant tone carries into my ear.

My eyes are back open in a flash. I regard the scarlet clad man with something akin to admiration.

"You have done well, arcanist. Such a valuable piece of archeotech has been preserved, thanks to your efforts," I compliment him, handing back the vid-slate to him in the process.

Doan's face lights up into a beaming grin, accepting the device with reverent hands.

"Thank you my lord! You have no idea how much your accolade means to me! Means to us!" he gestures behind me. I turn with the motion of his arm, and am greeted with a mass of crimson soldiers, adepts, and priests, all watching us with rapt attention. The crowd has grown. I observe these men and women with caution. The simple fact is, I do not know what to do with these people. Though they were unquestionably affected by the Great Crusade, I still did not know what legion brought them this enlightenment or how far their faith deviated from the worship of the Emperor.

"There is something else I have discovered with the… archeotech," the arcanist stumbles over the last word, but my attention is piqued nevertheless.

"Show me," I order.

Doan rushes to his desk and fumbles around with the items littered upon the wooden furniture. He gives a small shout of success as he finds what he needs. The man comes back to me, a small jewelry case in his hands.

"I thought this was just a pendant at first, but when I scrutinized it more closely, I realized it held reserves of great magical power!"

He opens the rectangular container. A flash of silvery light emits as the contents of the box are revealed. I gasp. My eyes blink twice to ensure the spectacle in front of me is real. No, I have seen many times such an ornament dangling from Brother Chaplain Targon's neck.

I reach slowly for the item, afraid it might suddenly disappear. The amulet is a carved in the likeness of the Great Father of Mankind, wings outstretched and sword held high.

It is a Rosarius.


	24. The Angel and His Crusaders

_Sarge51: Thanks!_

_EvilManicX: A Rosarius is a very rare piece of tech associated with the Chaplains of the Adeptus Astartes. What it essentially does, is emit a sort of protection field around the wearer, which will convert the energy of an attack or impact into light. Even 40k's most powerful weapons, such as plasma guns and meltaguns are ineffective against someone wielding a Rosarius. Do you mean Hemet Nesingwary? If so, then yes, Avarian will have some encounters with the famed dwarf hunter._

_Emperor Chronicler: At the moment, my update time will probably be once every week, give or take of course. You ask some very good questions regarding Malicia, who is/was a teacher of dark magic in Scholomance. Does she deserve a chance for redemption? And what will the others think? Especially the Dark Ranger, who has gone through the horrors the Scourge can inflict first hand? We'll see! _

_Arankor: Your puzzlement is perfectly natural for anyone who is familiar with Horus Heresy lore. However, everything will make sense in the end, or at least I hope it will make sense in the end! :P The way Dvaren Torias acts will be undoubtedly influenced by the Legion he travels with. This should give you a hefty hint! Hmmm… an Imperator Titan eh? Heh, I can just imagine Avarian on top of one of the god-machine's shoulders, chainsword held high as he directs the titan towards Icecrown Citadel, while Scarlet Crusaders pour from the Imperator's leg chambers…_

_Chris Adair: A Rosarius's protection field is effective against anything from thrown rocks to a lascannon shot! _

_Ironside2052: Thanks! We'll see if the Forsaken fear him… In regards to the Horus Heresy, there will be a lot more coming. By chapter 40ish, the fluff will hit you like a freight-train! :P_

_Gideon020: Probably not. I don't want Avarian suddenly picking up valued and rare 40k trinkets from the ground every chapter. The Rosarius is probably the only item belonging to the 40k universe you will see him find for quite a while._

_JagerPanzer: Astartes puking? Nahhh, they'd probably find a way to use the vomit as a weapon!_

_Knives91: Thank you!_

_Xynth: If you wanted to use an undead Space Marine in a fic, go for it. All I ask of you is to mention where you got the idea from!_

_Peanuckle: For the time being, I do not plan for Avarian to contact the Imperium. So no sudden 'the cavalry has arrived' scenes where an entire Crusade Fleet pops out of the Warp right next to Azeroth, no matter how awesome that might be! The battle he will have to win against both Chaos and the Burning Legion, he will have to use the resources at hand without any outside help._

_Ranger24: Eh, we'll see. The romance thing is a little iffy. I'm not sure even if I do want our Space Marine to fall for one of the girls._

_Lunatic Pandora1: I wouldn't call a vid-slate a relic, no matter how old it is. It's just ancient archeotech. And Avarian will only have the Rosarius. He not find anything useful for a decent amount of time._

_Overdrive1: Oh, how Avarian became a Space Marine, and all of its gory, bloody details will be mentioned in this fic… _

_Necron Lord Cire: A Rosarius is a sign of office as well as an amulet of protection. It is most often worn by Chaplains of the Adeptus Astartes for this very reason. Necrons eh? Maybe. If I do decide to incorporate them, it would be a much, much later date._

_Night Hunter MGS: I did say "I kid, I kid" didn't I? :P_

_Timewatch: Indeed… _

_Mephisteron: Thank you! Eh, we'll see. I don't want to suddenly dump a whole pile of 'OMFGWTFPWN' weapons from the 40k universe on Avarian's head. Yet…_

_Vashanti: It will depend on what kind of disease it is. Plagues concocted by Nurgle, for example, can affect Astartes, as evidenced by the Death Guard. However, the Death Plague of the Scourge might or might not affect him. It is one of those things that I will leave open to consideration since I dislike having a set path for my plot when there are a multitude of directions I can consider! And thanks!_

_Baka Ecchi Kon: Yes, I have mentioned that the Death Spectres are all albino. Avarian does reveal his face in Darnassus after all. And I have seen those pictures. Very hot, I must say! :P_

_Skipper_1337: Indeed… And if magic is not related to the Warp… does that mean Avarian can use it as well? –evil grin- _

_Soulless Reader: Yup, I wanted people who are familiar with HH lore to realize the irony. Sylvanas does not necessarily know if Avarian will be immune to the plague. She isn't stupid, so she will wait and bide her time to see if the disease can effect our Astartes at all._

_Dusel: We'll see… Something tells me Avarian won't like all of what he sees in the Scarlet Crusade._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: The Sister of Battle can be an interesting character, but I will not reveal whether she is the last character. Avarian will find more 40k tech, but it won't be here… You questions will be answered (partly) by this chapter._

_ArcherReborn2: Yes, the Rosarius will make him very powerful, but know that some creatures can still swat the Space Marine around like a fly, protection field or not. Just pray to the Emperor Avarian won't have to face one of those… _

_TheKillinglord: It will makes sense in the end my friend, it will make sense in the end!_

_Masterlich: Thank you!_

Chapter 23

High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane was in a foul mood as she strode from her private quarters in the Crusader's Chapel. Lighted torches affixed to stone walls cast a luminous glare on her moving form, spreading auras of radiance in an otherwise dark chamber. The basilica was meant to be a place of worship and meditation, and the occasional flickers of flame served only to enhance the solemn atmosphere.

She had sent numerous messengers, many times, to High General Abbendis regarding the nature of her orders here in Tirisfal Glades. She had received no reply. No acknowledgment for her efforts against both the Scourge and the Forsaken in the area. No praise for the feats her followers had achieved against the undead in this desolate place. Nothing.

She had asked for reinforcements, soldiers to continue the war against the undead in Deathknell as well as the defense at Solliden Farmstead. Without such warriors, both places were feeling the rigorous strain of war and in danger of being overwhelmed. Already she had been forced to send her own men and women from the Scarlet Monastery to aid their beleaguered comrades. Men and women she was ill-prepared to lose. There had been once close to two thousand Crusaders roaming the hallowed halls of this place. Now, barely five hundred still resided, evidence of the heavy tax of continuous combat against the undead, a tax that took its toll in lives.

It was as though if the higher echelons of the Crusade were purposefully disregarding her pleas for assistance.

Whitemane shook her head fervently at this thought. No, the Scarlet Crusade was the sole bastion of faith and righteousness in the gathered dark of Lordaeron. It was a brotherhood and sisterhood of same-minded people, united in their cause against the evil hordes of the dead that plagued their once beautiful homeland. Their loyalty to each other was as unbreakable as steel, their courage and resolve as indomitable as stone. How else could they stand against the unspeakable horrors of the Scourge?

To think that such willful ignorance could have taken place amongst her commanders was… sacrilege… to say the least. There must be some other reason that help could not be sent, some other pressing situation that prevented reinforcements to her fortress-monastery.

The Scarlet Inquisitor stalked sullenly towards the raised podium of her preaching spot. It was a roughly trapezoidal dais, with steps leading to its most elevated height. It was through here she could reach the hearts of her followers and appeal to their faith in the Light. When the monastery had been first established, this place had been filled to the brim with men and women eager to hear her sermons.

Sadly, as the days passed into weeks with no apparent relief from Hearthglen or Tyr's Hand in sight, the amount of worshippers had dwindled consecutively. Now, there were but two score of her followers kneeled in supplication, their heads bowed as they prayed.

Her aura of gloom turned to one of wrathful anger, undimmed with the passing of time, as she spotted the empty position once occupied by her High Commander, Renault Mograine.

Barely half a year ago, a strange man bearing the mighty Ashbringer had arrived at the entrance of the Grand Vestibule. The guards had naively led him into the cathedral, believing him to be of the great power as well as an ally to the Crusade. How wrong they were. The man strode purposefully through the Chapel Gardens, unchallenged, until he was at the opened gates of the innermost sanctum of the citadel. The High Commander had been most enthusiastic in greeting the stranger, marching joyfully out from the place of worship to congratulate the hero who had delivered such a powerful weapon into the rightful hands of the Crusade.

Yet not all was what it seemed. The tattered cloak that had enveloped the stranger's form was cast aside, revealing none other than Renault's younger brother, Darion. The High Commander's joy at once turned to fury at the sight of his forgotten brother and the past he symbolized. Both Mograines clashed in fatal combat, the older wielding his blade with years of experience, the younger with the strength of revenge. In the end, Renault's expertise could not be outmatched through sheer force alone, and in a wild cascade of sparks as sword met plate, he struck Darion down.

Then, tragedy struck. In the High Commander's moment of triumph, with his sword raised high to end the pitiful life of his upstart brother, a wispy, incorporeal figure had ghosted from the Ashbringer. Whitemane had watched in shock as her childhood friend threw away his weapon and groveled before the translucent apparition. Her shock turned into unquenched grief as the Blade of the Scarlet Highlord was animated with a life of its own and decapitated Renault in one swift, horrible motion.

Darion had fled then, ignored by the anguished Crusaders as they knelt before the murdered body of their beloved commander. Whitemane had tried to resurrect her fallen friend, but his spirit refused to inhabit the body, as though if afraid of some terrifying consequence. She was forced to watch as the lifeblood bubbled from Renault's headless body and seeped slowly into the paved cobblestone. Even now, almost six months later, his blood still stained the steps into the cathedral.

For a whole day, the inquisitor had shut herself within her room and wept. She had mourned the passing of a friend, a trusted companion, and a loyal subordinate. On the second day, she reemerged, the tears gone from her face, fresh words of prayer to deliver to her followers. It was her sacred duty to ensure the morale of her soldiers remained high, and she would fulfill this responsibility, no matter what impediments stood in her way.

Unfortunately, she was failing in this responsibility.

With the death of High Commander Mograine, the confidence of the Scarlet Crusaders plummeted to an all time low. A stranger had infiltrated into their midst with no great effort and assassinated their second-in-command before their very eyes. The reinforcements that refused to grace their ranks only served to further the general lowering of mental fortitude within the masses. The flame was gone from the candle of hope, and Whitemane was continuously unsuccessful in her attempts to restore it.

The one flicker of optimism that still remained was surprisingly due to Arcanist Doan's efforts a month after the Ashbringer incident. The venerable mage had grieved for the loss of the High Commander as hard as anyone, and had resorted to combing through the ancient shelves of the Athenaeum to forget the hurt. It was there he had found a peculiar object. A rectangular slate of some sorts. The arcanist had promptly shown it to her, and both spent a night figuring out what the thing did. It was through pure coincidence that they managed to decipher through its workings, the chief reason being Doan accidentally pressing down on a rather obvious protrusion on the item.

The contents it provided were well worth the night of frustrated efforts.

They had seen imposing, plate clad warriors striding purposefully into battle, gun-like weapons thundering with fire. Mighty machines of war followed these martial beings, some moving on treads of riveted iron, others stomping forward on thick, mechanical legs. The voice that accompanied these moving images was one filled with wisdom and insight. It had called these avatars of battle many names, but the predominant one that stood in both their minds was 'Angels of Death'.

Doan had been overwhelmed with joy. Deliverance, he had called it. Salvation for them, when their need was most dire. After all, had not the remembrancer spoke of these angels descending from the heavens to bring the Light?

Whitemane was more reluctant to believe such portents. Their need for aid had been dire for a while, even before Renault's death. If such Iron Angels existed, surely they would have shown themselves by now? Indeed, it was not wise to fully trust the message conveyed by the device.

The arcanist had also displayed to her the pendant he discovered with the slate. Apparently an enchanted amulet with the powers of protection. At least, according to the mage. She had never fully discovered if Doan's speculation had been right, for the ornament had sizzled with heat at their touch, as though if in protest at being held. It was gear fit for a being much more powerful than them, both had realized.

The amulet was stored safely within a jewelry case of crafted oak. Perhaps one day a mighty champion of the Crusade would make use of it.

The device that held the moving images, however, did not receive such a hallowed resting place.

The High Inquisitor had recognized the positive effects the slate could bring to her forces, and though she was hesitant in fully believing its contents, the significance of it could not be denied. She had allowed the arcanist to call for a meeting within the Halls of Champions, with every Crusader still residing within the monastery ordered to attend. They had all crowded in, men and women who had served under her command for years. They still showed her the deference her rank garnered, but it was a respect subdued and broken. The loss of the High Commander still weighed heavily on their minds, as well as the continued lack of reinforcements.

That was, until, the voice of Dvaren Torias escaped from the slate.

The despondence and fatigue on the assembled faces slowly receded as the words of the remembrancer reverberated smoothly within the antechamber. The device was too small to be displayed to everyone at once, so it was passed from soldier to protector, from conjuror to myrmidon, from adept to trainee. All held it in reverent hands, eyes glued to the rectangular screen, ears straining to catch every uttered statement. Stifled gasps were heard as the first of many Iron Angels emerged into view. Whispers of excitement spread as more of the metal giants appeared, each one different from the last. The murmurs turned into sudden intakes of breath as monstrosities propelled on bulky legs stomped forward, cannons blazing with discharge, gigantic fists cackling with electricity. But there was more. Iron Angels with tubular packs strapped to their frames leapt into the air, trailing twin plumes of fire, gauntlets clasping whirring saw-like blades. Giants wielding a wild assortment of massive guns planted themselves firmly in the ground, feet digging into dirt as their weapons spat bullets, ejected glowing bolts of energy, or simply lashed out with bright beams of light.

It took three hours for the slate to circulate fully amongst the amassed men and women. But it was three hours not wasted, for in the end, when the meeting was dispersed, renewed confidence had surged into the heart of every Crusader.

Whitemane saw the rise in morale instantly.

She quickly ordered the device to be taken to every Scarlet Outpost in Tirisfal by her fastest riders, with instructions on how to manipulate it into playing. She needed her warriors to be in their prime to hold out against the undead hordes, and if such a device could strengthen their fortitude, she would not reject its usefulness.

Only recently had the slate returned, its presence having been felt by every living human within Tirisfal.

The High Inquisitor slowly ascended the steps to the chapel's preaching pedestal. Today was going to be like any other, she supposed. No news from Tyr's Hand. No response from Hearthglen. No way for her to alleviate her mounting frustration.

She halted before the wooden podium, her hands gripping the smooth sides.

"Scarlet Crusaders! Warriors of Lordaeron! Gather before me!" her words rang out passionately. The forty odd warriors still willing to listen to her sermons did as was told, rising up from their kneeling positions and assembling before the raised dais.

"Together, we have stood against the monsters that are the undead! Through our faith in the Light and our trust in each other, we have accomplished feats worthy of great heroes! It is through our efforts that the realms of our forefathers remain free from the Scourge! It is through our endeavors that humanity survives the death plague of the foul Lich King! It is through our deeds that hope still shines strong in the these dark lands! Take heart to this, Crusaders! Take heart to this, and know that one day, we will purge the taint of undeath from our domains and once again strike high the banner of Lordaeron!"

A crescendo of cheers greeted her speech, reaching every corner of the basilica. Whitemane bit her lip slightly. She remembered the days when such ovation tore from the throats of near two thousand men and women, their shouts of approval rocking the very foundation of the cathedral.

That was a long time ago and yet, felt just like yesterday.

The Scarlet Inquisitor fought down the wave of nostalgia and focused on the task at hand.

"The Light is our might! Let it fill your limbs with fresh strength!" her timbre echoed resonantly within the hallowed halls.

"We serve the Light!" intoned the collected Crusaders.

"The Light is our resolve! Let it fill your bodies with steadfast perseverance! "

"We serve the Light!"

"The Light is our courage! Let it fill your hearts with unwavering valor!"

"We serve the Light!"

"The Light guides us!" the inquisitor's lips moved rapidly as she reached a different verse in the prayer, "For it is the Light that will forever show us the direction of righteousness!"

"Without the Light, we would be lost!" the soldiers before her chanted in unison.

"The Light protects us! For it is the Light that will forever shield us from the ways of evil!"

"Without the Light, we would have fallen!"

"The Light gives us meaning! For it is the Light that will forever define what we do and who we are!"

She expected her followers to recite the next line of the mantra. She did not expect the thick doors of the chapel to suddenly open. The High Inquisitor shut her eyes to ward off the unexpected intrusion of daylight.

"**For without the Emperor's Light, we would have no purpose.**" A booming, metallic voice finished for her.

Her eyes were back open in a flash.

A giant strode into the cathedral.

Twin tear-shaped orbs of blood red were locked in a stern gaze with her own astonished irises. They gleamed eerily from a faceplate of colored bone, crafted faintly to resemble the image of a human visage, with a ventral mouth opening likened to a rictus sneer. The helm itself was flanked by two massive pauldrons, adorned with tattered strips of parchment. Plated armor covered its indomitable frame, black as midnight, caked in dried blood. Dangling from the being's neck was the very same amulet that Doan had found months ago. Whereas then it had shone dully without luster, now it blazed with fiery radiance, as though if approving of its new found master. Enormous hands cradled a hulking gun of immense size, its barrel wide enough for a grown man's fist to fit through. A long, straight sword jutting with metal teeth, drenched with recently spilled gore, hung from the giant's waist.

An Iron Angel!

A crowd of Scarlet Crusaders stood behind the colossus, their faces betraying rapt adoration. Arcanist Doan was with them, the mage's countenance turned upwards into a proud smile.

The black clad being took two more steps, two three-meter long strides that shook the very earth. Its firm stare never wavered, affixed to her nervous frame like a judge sentencing a criminal. Then, surprisingly, the angel inclined its head towards her. A gesture of respect.

Once more its words was heard, raspy and sounding of metal.

"**It is good to be in a place of worship to the Emperor once more.**"

* * *

"What is the meaning of this trickery?" the king of Stormwind hissed dangerously.

Two palace guards heard their liege's snarl and turned, their expressions of alarm hidden by the crested helmets they wore. One spoke up hesitantly.

"Is something amiss my lord?"

"That voice! Can you hear it?" Varian growled in annoyance.

"Voice? What voice my lord?" both guards glanced at each other, their alarm fading into confusion.

"You can't hear it then?" the king shot them both an angry glare.

"No my lord…"

"Then get out of my sight! I wish to be alone."

The two men shared a look of bewilderment, before shrugging and slowly heading towards the entrance of the palace. The ruler of Stormwind stared moodily at their retreating backs.

_"Lord Wyrnn… Was that really necessary? I can be heard by you and only you. There was no need to dismiss your guards in such a… discourteous manner," _silken syllables whispered soothingly into his mind.

"Quiet you! Halt your trespass and be away! Lest I find a new practice post for my swords!" spat Varian threateningly.

_"Ahhh, but surely the esteemed sovereign of Stormwind would not be so… uncouth… as to turn away a modest proposal that would benefit us all?"_

"I do not listen to the schemes of madmen whose intentions are hidden behind the useless words they spew!"

_"Useless, my lord? Madman? Why… I'm positively insulted. After all, all I wanted was to offer a little… plan… to alleviate this Horde problem of yours,"_ the voice had somehow managed to inject a hurtful tone into its quality.

"You think you have a solution to the Horde?" Varian laughed, "What makes you think you have the wisdom and experience of my advisors? If they cannot find a feasible solution, how can you?"

_"Your so-called advisors only think for themselves… Only guide you in a direction suited to them. They do not understand your goals for humanity and the Alliance. All they see in their eyes is another pawn in a game of chess. Easily expendable when you are of no more use to them."_

"You dare insult my counselors!?! They are wiser than you ever will be! I would trust them with my life!"

_"Really? Then pray tell me, Lord Wyrnn, why haven't they agreed to your plans? Why do they continue to postpone a full offensive of the Alliance against the Horde?"_

"Lady Proudmoore has already convinced me of the futility of a full-scale war. I will not hear anymore regarding this subject," he replied darkly.

_"Can you not see the truth for what it is my Lord Wyrnn? Your advisors, especially that Proudmoore, are playing you for a fool. They weave a veil of lies and deceit around you like a web, ensnaring you when you least expect it."_

"They would never do such a thing to me!"

_"Is that so?"_ the whispered words had become coy and innocent, _"Then do explain to me why this… Proudmoore… would interfere with what would have been your rightful victory against the orc?"_

He had no answer for that.

* * *

All kaldorei were someway in tune with Nature. They could feel the happiness of water sprites as they frolicked within the cool liquid of the moonwells. They could sense the tranquility of the ancient spirits that rested within the tall trees of Mount Hyjal. They could perceive the change of currents in the wind, the sudden change of flow within a river, the calm before an encroaching storm. One did not need to learn the ways of a druid to notice the presence of such fay beings.

Keina Stormsong shivered involuntarily as she passed the withered husk of a tree, its emaciated branches long deceased. Wherever she looked, the sad, wasted figures of plant life loomed, spreading shadows of gloom and despair. The night elf felt heart-wrenching grief as her gaze drifted from the clusters of desiccated flora to the corrupted soil that covered the earth. In his madness, Arthas had not only killed the people of Lordaeron, he had killed the very ground they once lived upon.

This place scared her. Not because it was hauntingly evil. Not because it was plagued by creatures of the undead. No, it terrifed her because the spirits of Nature that should have inhabited this place, were dead.

And their death was not a quick one.

The plague of the Scourge killed slowly, eating away at the mortal shells of these spirits, ignoring their begging pleas for mercy. Their screams of torture still echoed agonizingly in the sentinel commander's ears, a poignant reminiscence of the last few seconds of their lives.

Keina reached for the reassuring presence of her sword, the very one given to her by the giant. It had become a habit of late for the night elf to clasp the blade in moments of weakness. She had done so when the god had set her down on her wounded leg in his hurry to combat the dreadlord, when he abandoned her to the mercy of the Horde in his own quest of self-meditation, and now, when in their efforts to find him, encountered this.

Her fingers brushed the handle lovingly before her palm settled in an uncompromising grip.

"Are you afraid, kaldorei?" a hoarse utterance snapped her from her sorrow.

The night elf spun on her heel to face the Forsaken that had crept behind her. Clad in a long tattered cloak of dark purple, its true figure was hidden from view. A bow of carved bone was clenched in hands pale from halted decay, a sickening parody of her own finely-crafted weapon. Red, glowing eyes glared at her mockingly, half hidden behind a hood of light material.

"What is it you want, undead creature?" the sentinel spat in disgust.

The Dark Ranger tilted her head to one side, a thin smile ghosting her pastel features.

"Are you afraid, night elf?" the undead woman repeated the question.

"What is it to you?" growled Keina defensively.

"Nothing, I'm afraid. But, you and I are alike. Both of us can discern the terrors this forest has endured."

"That is true…" she admitted reluctantly.

"You are horrified of this place. And rightly so," the Dark Ranger's smirk faltered a little, "Now imagine my shock when I awoke from the peace of death to find my affinity with Nature gone, torn away by that bastard, Arthas, along with my past life. For months I refused to believe what I had become, a twisted, defiled thing, wretched and unwanted. It was only through Mistress Sylvanas and her formidable skills that I regained my sanity, as well as a new art. Necromancy."

The leering grin was back in full force.

"You would throw away your kinship with the spirits for the lure of dark magic?" Keina asked in disbelief.

The laughter that greeted her was crazed and almost maniacal.

"That and more! You do not see the true beauty that is death, night elf. Your eyes will forever regard these dark forests as an atrocity. But you remain ignorant of the glorious transcendence of undeath that has happened here."

"There is no glory here! Nothing but grief and sorrow!"

"That is because you cannot and never will see the truth. Death is merely a state of being. We Forsaken have bested it. We have ascended into a form that can no longer be ravaged by its touch."

The Dark Ranger moved her head closer, so that her next words would not reach the orc and the blood elf that strayed a few steps behind.

"For that is the teaching of the Cult of Forgotten Shadows."


	25. The Dark Truth That is Faith

_Emperor Chronicler: Instructor Malicia is a character that will be very interesting to have in Avarian's little party. One, she is a teacher of dark magic in Stratholme, which means she will possess many spells that will have an Ordo Malleus Inquisitor frothing with rage. Two, she has not completely thrown off the tendrils of the Lich King, which can be a potential hazard to the group. Redemption for her won't come easy, especially in the eyes of an Astartes. Our Space Marine has already encountered the Scourge in the forms of the ghouls he slaughtered when he was off on his little meditation journey. He'll have to deal with them in much, much larger quantities later on. As for Kel'Thuzad, Avarian will visit Naxxramas , but understandably, that won't be for a while._

_Soulless Reader: Thank you! Chaos Sorcerers are the masters of intrigue and laying low, so he won't go around openly declaring his allegiance to the dark gods. The Cult of Forgotten Shadows is lorewise, the religion of the Forsaken. It is based on a bastardization of the Light, and twisted to suit the needs of the Forsaken. Interestedly enough, if the Light can be seen as a form of worship to the Emperor, then so can the Cult of Forgotten Shadows… which means the free undead are also devoted to the Emperor… Avarian is probably close to nine feet in power armor, and eight feet without it._

_Okais: Thanks! I believe your question will be answered in this chapter!_

_InboxPie: Thank you! I have already thought about what the magic/faith system in WoW can affect an Astartes. Suffice to say, it will have an effect on the plot. _

_Xynth: In regards to females being added to Avarian's retinue, not all of them will have the same attraction to him like Keina, who for the time being, could be described as actually "loving" him. Some will follow Vareesa's line of action, trying to gain his favor for their own benefit. You can imagine the Dark Ranger doing this, attempting to sway our hero towards a pact with the Forsaken. Instructor Malicia is a whole another ball game, as I hope to demonstrate in later chapters. And finally Whitemane. Well… Read on to find out!_

_Sarge51: Oh you will. I wouldn't mention such things if I didn't plan to use them later!_

_Arankor: I cannot say if you are right or wrong as that would give away a considerable portion of the plot. But, be satisfied that I have finally revealed the last 40k character… And yes, Lorgar wrote the __Lectitio Divinitatus__, which would later form the basis of Imperial religion._

_Ranger24: I wouldn't say take control… more like forcibly requisitioned._

_Peanuckle: Thank you. No speech yet though, maybe next chapter? :P_

_Knives91: He's a Space Marine. They all know how to make glorious entrances. Flaming drop pods, screaming Thunderhawks, and the likes._

_Weapon-VII: Dark Rangers were originally banshees, but were given new, undecayable bodies by Sylvanas using necromancy. So it would stand to reason they would know some of the tenets of how to summon the dead and what not. Instructor Malicia could be considered a warlock, as she teaches members of the Cult of the Damned on how to manipulate dark magics. _

_RokkitBoyz: The last character has been unveiled in this chapter!_

_Dusel: Correct, however, Raven Guard Space Marines and their successor chapters are missing the organ that actually produces the acid spit. So, sadly, Avarian's vomit won't be acidic, no matter how cool/disgusting that might sound. He doesn't know about the dreadlord being in command yet. But when he does, there will be general raging…_

_Lunatic Pandora 1: Oh definitely. What a lot of people forget is that Space Marines are not only very strong and durable, they possess very high intelligence and charisma. The genetic enhancements also affects their brain, not just their bodies. So in later chapters, you'll see Avarian gain loyalty from many factions, lead soldiers into battle, and basically do what Space Marines do best!_

_GanjaFarmer: Thanks! The character roster is already pretty much set, so I can't really subtract a few from the plotline. However, I plan to make them as interesting as possible, so don't worry about the story floundering! Oh, Avarian will have a few words with Vareesa when the time comes…_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Nah, Forsaken Space Marine isn't where this story is going. If Avarian was to become undead, there would be instant distrust towards him. That pretty much defeats the whole purpose of "uniting the Horde and the Alliance". There will be many fights in the future for the Scarlet Crusade, but they won't be against Avarian. Suffice to say, these red clad warriors of the Light will learn the true meaning of an Imperial Crusade!_

_Akira Stridder: Not yet… Not yet…_

_Overdrive1: Addiction is bad. But addiction to this story is good! :P In Dawn of War, I actually liked Sindri. The way he talked was both awesome and funny at the same time. And I don't consider Soulstorm to be a game as much as a parody. Indrick Baldeale… METAL BOXES… and the likes._

_Timewatch: This Wednesday actualy! :P_

_Zanji of clan okami: Every time the fan breaks, I just replace it with a new one!_

Chapter 24

I know this prayer… The Litany of Blessed Purpose. It is an archaic benediction, rumored to have been in use from the end of the Horus Heresy. However, its popularity diminished over time with the Imperial masses, and was replaced in favor of more religious mantras by the Ecclesiarchy in the thirty-six millennium. Luckily, we Astartes do not bend our knees to the wishes of these fanatics, nor do we forget the glorious history of our progenitors. Brother Chaplain Targon was a fervent adherent to the latter, and more than once my brothers and I have heard catechisms long in disuse, including this one, in his sermons within the Reclusiam.

These people have misinterpreted some of the words in the litany, the most obvious error being the replacement of the "Emperor" with the "Light". But such a mistake, though to some extents heretical, can be forgiven, especially given the circumstances. The fact that after ten thousand years, such a prayer can remain this unadulterated, is a miracle in itself.

I can only thank the Emperor for the acute hearing he has gifted me. Otherwise, I would have surely missed the incantation by this white haired priestess.

My visor focuses on the person in question. She is clad in red, much like her followers, an elaborately embroidered garment adorning her upper frame. Her thighs are exposed, cream-colored, ending in scarlet leggings and leather boots of the same color. A rather strange way for a preacher of the Emperor to dress, but I am not one to judge a world's fashion development. A cloth chapeau sits regally from her crown, covering, but not fully hiding the locks of pallid hair that drifts down to her shoulders. Her face is heart-shaped, and regards me with both surprise and wonder.

So like a Soritas… So like a certain canoness…

No! NO! I will not remember that place! I will not think of that battle!

Too late.

One after another, the faces of my battle-brothers assail my mind. Dead-eye Darthan. The man who had never wasted a bolt round, no matter how heated the combat raged around him. Wise Ullanxes, who had been my close advisor and friend, who had memorized the Codex Astartes to a word. Brave Hadrabul. The hero who had once flung himself into a mob of frenzied orks to buy time for his fellow brothers. Cunning Ixion, who always found a way to defeat the foe, either through applied blade or a quick thinking mind. Relentless Torval. My heavy weapons trooper, and steadfast follower. Zealous Gharven, whose devotion and dedication to the Emperor have inspired us to greatness many times before. Swift Nartor, whose agility could match that of an Eldar Aspect Warrior. Esteemed Ollan. A Marine six centuries old, and an unwavering rock of discipline to my squad. And finally, my special weapons wielder, Cessius, familiar with every armament in our fortress-monastery's formidable arsenal.

I have failed them. I have failed the trust they have placed in me. I have failed them as a brother sergeant.

Their wrathful countenances surround me, hemming me in and staring at me accusingly. They blame me for their deaths, and rightly so. If I had not been lax in my duties, then they would have still been alive and well.

"My lord?" the voice is curious as it is fearful.

I am startled from my trance, the priestess's tone ringing hollowly in my ears. The apparitions disappear, each giving me a long, baleful glare before vanishing from my conscience.

"I… am fine," I try to hide the grief in my tone, "Tell me, what is your name, cleric?"

"High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane, my lord," the woman answers proudly.

"Inquisitor? I assume that is a rank held in some regard here?" I ask, out of genuine curiosity as well as attempting to drive my thoughts away from the dead.

"Yes, it is," Whitemane puffs out her chest, displaying an ample bosom in the process, "The rank of High Inquisitor is given only to the most faithful adherents to the Light. Any Scarlet Crusaders within Tirisfal is under my direct command."

I frown slightly at these words. The woman has just admitted she is the chief heretic amongst these worshippers of the "Light". If I had not known these humans were of some relation to the Great Crusade, my bolter would already be speaking for me. But, as I have often reminded myself of late, these are not normal circumstances.

"Your faith is to be commended," I state simply, not willing to go as far as to compliment a preacher of an unknown religion.

"Thank you my lord! Our belief in the Light has been sorely tested these past months, but we never lost our purpose!" she beamed, drawing a chorus of cheers from the scarlet-bedecked warriors in front of her as well as behind me.

"And just what is that purpose?" I prod with interest.

The High Inquisitor blinks at me in surprise.

"Surely you would know, Iron Angel! To destroy the Scourge infestation! To retake the lands of Lordaeron! To uphold humanity's rightful place as rulers of Azeroth!"

The cheers that had so recently died down erupted once more, this time more akin to bellowed roars. Whitemane's smile grew wider. So like Canoness Kathrina…

I snarl as the memories threaten to resurface again. My mind tries desperately to shut the recollections from manifesting. I focus stringently on the priestess's words, hoping I will not have to see the specters of my brothers once more.

The Scourge. Vareesa has spoken of these undead creatures before, though her descriptions were generally lacking in substance. She had mentioned the destructive trail these blasphemous beings had wrought wherever they tread, but I needed more information. Troop numbers. Force disposition. Their knowledge and use of tactics. Strengths and weaknesses. The blood elf could not provide these, and so I had forgotten about these undead, focused instead on the looming threat of Chaos. I had not imagined that such a foe would rear its head at this place.

The woman's last two statements brings fierce satisfaction into my hearts. At last! Humans who realize their exalted position as masters of the universe! These people do not kowtow to alien scum, unlike the Stormwind ambassadors at Darnassus, whose deference to the xeno leader had made me want to retch in revulsion. Even if these red clad men and women are ignorant of the Emperor, they can still be lauded for their efforts in regaining their world from the tainted grasp of the alien.

"A fine goal, inquisitor." I reply, my earlier reluctance to praise, gone.

"Thank you, Iron Angel! And now with you here, we can accomplish it!" Whitemane accepts my accolade with gleeful excitement.

"We?" I emphasize the word in bemusement.

This time, it is Arcanist Doan who speaks.

"Yes! We! With you at our head, we will turn back the hordes of the undead! We will retake our rightful lands and cleanse any nonhumans from our realms!"

"And you would be so willing to accept me as your leader?" my question betrays my skepticism.

"Of course, lord! You are an Iron Angel! Sent by the Light to grant us salvation in our most dire time of need! We will follow you to the very ends of Azeroth!"

I turn to the High Inquisitor. She gives an acknowledging nod, fully agreeing with the arcanist's zealous comments.

I know not if I should be respectful of the faith these people display, or horrified at their single-mindedness. Devotion to the Emperor is to be extolled, but not when it is blind and without reason. Faith is a double-edged sword, capable of cutting both friend and foe alike. Had I not been an Astartes of the Death Spectres, but one of the wretched infiltrators of the Alpha Legion, or even worse, one of the accursed apostles of the Word Bearers, these worshippers of the Light would have still prostrated themselves before me.

I shudder at the thought of what could have transpired if my lineage did not descend from that of mighty Corax.

But, despite my misgivings about these people, I could still make use of them. I do not know just how much the corrupt servants of the ruinous powers have entrenched themselves here. There could be a series of small cults like the one I have encountered at Blackfathom Deeps, or there could be a veritable army biding their time to strike. Better that I have an army stalwartly loyal to me when the opposition proves too much to handle. However, the Codex Astartes strictly forbids Space Marines from commandeering personnel from the Imperial Guard and the Imperial Navy. A reason why the Horus Heresy had been so devastating was because the traitor primarchs had thousands of Marines as well as countless regular Imperial Army troopers under their direct command. It was this very reason that the reforms known as the Second Founding were created. No longer would Astartes of the same geneseed be able to march in their tens of thousands on a single world. No longer would Space Marine commanders have entire war hosts of lesser men at their beck and call. No longer would any man be able to wield the power that ignited the galaxy in the flames of civil war.

Yet, these scarlet warriors were not of any Imperial organization. Surely, the Codex Astartes held no sway in this situation? I cannot deny the usefulness of an army, especially not now, when I am surrounded by unfamiliar foes and allies alike.

"I accept then," my affirmation is short and to the point.

A boisterous torrent of ovation greets my declaration. I note the worshipful faces of those around me with a tinge of discomfort. Their joy should be directed to the Emperor, not me. I am merely one of many of His servants, and I am uncomfortable at receiving adulation that should be reserved for the Father of Mankind.

"Excellent!" Doan cries out, carried away by the excitement, "We should start right away! Let us gather our forces and begin immediate assaults on the undead!"

"Not so hasty arcanist," Whitemane admonishes, "we need time to send word to our forces spread throughout Tirisfal. As well as have messengers sent to Hearthglen and Tyr's Hand to relay our discovery of the Iron Angel. There is also the minor matter of the prisoners being held under Vishas, but that should be solved rather qui---"

"Prisoners?" I interrupt her ramblings, incredulous "You would keep a dungeon under a place of worship?"

"Yes. They are plagued, undead scum. We keep them here for interrogation," the priestess replies, oblivious to the sacrilege of such an act as well as my hardening tone.

"If they are diseased, how have you managed to stay free of the contagion?" I growl.

"Well… They aren't undead yet. But they will be," she answers dismissively.

"They will be?" I inquire further, not liking where this was leading to.

"Yes…" she finally senses something is awry, possibly due to my ceramite gauntlets balling into tight fists, "would you like see for yourself?"

"That would be acceptable."

* * *

Karduk, like most denizens of Azeroth, held true to the tenet, "if it dies, let it stay dead". The spirit of the deceased deserved peace, no matter what kind of previous life their mortal shells once lived. Even the art of resurrection, known only to the most skilled and accomplished healers, was practiced only after a battle, when the victim in question was still needed by his or her comrades.

The Forsaken were a sad exception to this principle. Forced into an unholy existence of torture and despair by the machinations of the Lich King, these "free" undead were distrusted both for their past allegiance as well as simply being of the same ilk as the Scourge. It was only through Thrall's repeated entreaties on behalf of Sylvanas and her people that finally won them a place in the Horde.

The Kor'kron warrior grunted as he remembered the warchief's impassioned speech in the Valley of Honor. Thrall had spoken of how the New Horde should be honorable and magnanimous to others. That was the only way, he said, to truly cast off the blood curse of their demonic masters and return to their shamanistic roots. And what better way to display their magnanimity than to extend a helping hand to the Forsaken?

In retrospect, had the warchief known just how treasonous these undead would prove to be, even he would have balked at accepting them into the ranks of the Horde.

Karduk shook his head slowly, his snow-white plaits swaying with the motion.

Not all the Forsaken had turned traitor, he reminded himself. Most of them had remained staunchly loyal, and had been almost killed by Putress and Varimathras for their devotion to the Horde. Sadly, not everyone would see it that way.

The orc ignored the wizened husks of the forest around him as he trod past. His gaze was locked on the back of the impromptu leader of their little group, veiled in a tattered cloak of shadowy purple. The Dark Ranger. The supposedly, expert tracker who could take them to the giant. Karduk had been most adamant against her joining them. Even if most of the Forsaken were not involved with the Wrathgate affair, one could never be sure. Who knew where this… Cyndia's… true loyalties lay?

Besides, they already had an accomplished tracker in the form of the night elf. Karduk spared a look at the kaldorei woman. Or not. The sentinel was staring at their surroundings in only what could be described as barely contained horror, a hand gripped tightly around the hilt the exquisite sword she had sheathed in her belt. Her large, round eyes moved rapidly back and forth, grief and fear apparent in the lustrous pupils.

The Kor'kron snorted. Such weakness. How in Doomhammer's name had Garrosh failed to rout these elves in Warsong Gulch?

The Dark Ranger held a pale hand up , signaling for them to stop.

"What?" hissed Vareesa, her tone betraying uneasiness.

The Forsaken didn't answer and instead gestured to the scene in front of her.

Carnage. Utter and absolute carnage. Two dozen ghouls lay motionless before them, their ragged forms sprawled to impossible angles. Each body was thoroughly brutalized, some displaying massive cavernous holes blasted in their wretched frames, others showing the telltale signs of being bludgeoned to death. One corpse had collapsed into a sagging mess, almost unrecognizable. Its spine had been torn out, not from its back, but from its chest. Karduk winced at the thought of how much strength it would take for such a gruesome action to take place.

And only one being so far had demonstrated such potency. It was not hard to put two and two together.

"It's his work alright," the blood elf confirmed, satisfaction creeping into her alluring features.

"The metal man? Avarian?" the Dark Ranger whispered hoarsely.

"Yes. But why do you care? Your job is to only take us to him," answered the kaldorei sentinel grouchily, a hint of trepidation still noticeable in her voice.

"That is only half of the job. The other half is to accompany him. And after seeing the beauty of death he can so elegantly dole out, I must say I am most enthusiastic in fulfilling the latter half."

Both the night elf and the blood elf visibly stiffened at Cyndia's remark. Karduk fought down the urge to chuckle. It was also not hard to realize that the giant was going to have his hands full…

* * *

"THIS IS THE WORK OF YOUR FAITH?!? THIS IS YOUR SO-CALLED RELIGION OF LIGHT?!?"

The roar thunders jarringly through the torture chambers, forcing many to cover their ears, including Instructor Malicia.

"THIS IS HOW YOU BASE YOUR WORSHIP?!? THROUGH TORTURE AND TORMENT OF INNOCENTS!?!"

The scarlet clad soldiers cowered before the wrathful angel, weapons discarded and forgotten. Only High Inquisitor Whitemane still stood before the giant, her staff and symbol of authority clutched rebelliously in one hand.

"The Light calls for the extinction of the undead! What you see before you are humans no longer! They are but one step away from becoming Scourge!" she protested.

"Spoken like a true lackey of the Inquisition," the Iron Angel snarled. Whitemane's brows knit in confusion, as did Malicia's. The high elf knew not of any organization called the Inquisition that existed on Azeroth.

"Augment Terrorsight." It was an order, but seemingly directed at no one.

The slit visors of the giant's helm glowed angrily, achieving an even brighter hue of red. His glare encompassed all in its fury, and prisoner and guard alike strove to avoid it. All except one. A man pinned to a torturing rack stared back at the angel, defiance painted on his features. On closer inspection, the quel'dorei caught sight of the tattered remnants of a tabard still affixed to his bloodied chest. The rising sun embellished on a black background. The symbol of the Argent Dawn.

"Nothing. NOTHING!" the bellow broke her attention away from the man, "Nothing suggests these people have been afflicted with any plague!"

"B-B-But my lord, they have secrets to tell and---"

"BE SILENT!!! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SPEAK VISHAS!!! NOT AFTER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE HERE!!!"

The Interrogator scrambled back, whimpering.

The Iron Angel took three long strides towards a wooden table, occupied by a young woman barely out of her teens. A long row of victims bound to similar devices followed, some weakly struggling against their ropes, others having long expired. The stink of human excrement and urine wafted from each wooden frame, threatening to overload the high elf's senses with disgust.

The girl screamed as the giant neared, struggling frantically against the thick iron chains that held her in place.

"No more! No more!" she pleaded, "I admit everything! I am undead! I am undead! Please! No more!"

Her wretched body broke into despairing sobs. Malicia felt her heart fill with pity. Pity? An emotion all but lost to her when she served in the House of Barov.

"See? The filth admits it through her own mouth! She is undead!" Whitemane smiled triumphantly.

"She admits it because you have broken her," grated the giant, malevolence evident in his tone.

"Scarlet bastards! Leave the lass alone! Torture me to your heart's content! But leave her alone!"

All turned to see the source of the new voice. It was the Argent Dawn man, his naked chest heaving up and down with exertion. The giant strode towards him, leaving the girl to her weeping.

"Blasphemers to the Light! Murderers of the innocent! You are not worthy to lick the dirt from Uther's boot!" the man continued to rage, thrashing valiantly against his chains.

The angel halted in front of him.

"And you! You! You would affiliate yourself with these Scarlet scum? You are no better than a common thug! You are no better than a murderer!"

The prisoner spat at the giant. A globule of bloody phlegm splattered onto the Iron Angel's chestplate, further staining the already gore-encrusted armor. The strange teethed weapon leapt from the metal being's belt. A screeching whirr escaped from the blade, the spiked teeth churning in unison. The giant lashed out with the intimidating sword, raising a shower of sparks as it met the rusty links binding the man to the table. The chains dropped to the floor, messily sundered apart.

"Free them."

"Pardon?" both Vishas, Whitemane, and the arcanist, Doan, spoke in unison.

"Free them," the angel gestured with his still sputtering blade to the rows of petrified captives.

"But they're all undead! They're servants to the Scourge!"

"And how did you deduce that?"

Malicia flinched. Cold logic and apoplectic fury were proving to be extremely deadly in the giant's hands.

"Look at the color of their limbs! They're too pale! Only corpses could reach such a pallid color! They must be undead!" Doan reasoned.

The Iron Angel placed a plated hand on his helm and tore it off.

"Then judging by your analysis, arcanist, I am undead as well?"

Every Scarlet Crusader in the chamber gawked. Not the high elf. She was too busy studying the giant's revealed features. The angel was a man. And a handsome one at that. His skin was wrong. Alabaster in color, the pigmentation couldn't have been natural. Yet, as wrong as it was, it was equally attractive. A few scars crisscrossed his otherwise flawless face, adding an air of doughtiness about him. Blue eyes akin to her own were narrowed hatefully towards the Crusaders, promising fierce retribution.

"Do I need to repeat myself a third time?"

Whitemane nodded glumly to Vishas. The Interrogator fumbled with the keys strung at his hip, before moving towards the torture racks.

"I want everyone on the chapel grounds. Everyone," the angel's baritone voice rumbled, "Your faith is deluded. Misplaced. It is a sad and twisted defilement of the Imperial Creed. You say I will lead you to salvation. That is true. I will lead you to the deliverance all of you so desperately seek. But it is deliverance from yourselves."

The amulet that dangled from the giant's neck shone with fierce light.

* * *

The Rosarius. Its Rosarius. Active? After so long?

It awoke from a fitful slumber, the complicated workings of its ocular sensors stirring into life through a series of dim blinking lights. Its real eyes were long gone, replaced by bundles of neurotic wires that fed images directly to a mind ten thousand years old. It could see, but its sight was grainy and unfocused, a cruel distortion of its former vision. Lesser men would have been plagued with grief at such a grave loss to a primary sense. It did not care. It was made to do battle. No matter how terrible its sight was now, as long as it still possessed the ability to visualize, it would make use of it to wage war.

Once, eons ago, it had been flesh and blood. Flesh and blood protected by ceramite and driven with the purpose of the Great Crusade, but flesh and blood all the same. A thousand battle fields it had visited, a thousand conflicts won through the sacrifice of its battle-brothers. A thousand victories it had partaken, a thousand glories forever remembered by those who were freed from the shackles of the xeno.

It was still flesh and blood. But it was flesh desiccated and atrophied. Blood clotted and useless.

The sarcophagus that held its tattered frame also kept it alive. Through advanced technology bordering on sorcery, it was rescued from the clutches of death and placed within the admantium casket it now resided in. It had rejoiced then. For it meant continued service to the Emperor and to the primarch. Continued glories through the Great Crusade. Continued protection and guardianship over all mankind. It would not be cheated from its existence as an Astartes.

The dim, winking lights that had replaced its eyes focused on the two limbs flanking its massive torso. One ended in a four digit fist, larger than a man's chest. The other was not so much a limb as a gigantic weapon mount, protruding twin barrels of malevolence. Lascannon. The bane to anything armored, and anything unarmored as well.

A patina of dust covered both weapon arms. A product of centuries of inactivity.

It had tried countless times to move both limbs. To no avail. There was no power coursing through the thick fibre-wires that connected each arm to its frame. It could no longer swing its massive fist to smite the foes of humanity, nor could it loose beams of incandescent death into the enemy ranks. No more war for this corpse machine. No more glory for the lifeless pilot within.

How? How had it failed the primarch? How had it failed the Emperor?

For ten millennia it had wondered. It had pondered. Memory-banks, full of reminiscences of battles won and cheering crowds, were picked through with meticulous care. Each mental image was looked through and thought through. But in the end, it could find no wrong in its actions.

But that would mean the fault was not its. And that would mean treachery. Betrayal. Duplicity.

No! That couldn't be! The error lay with it, not with its brothers, not with the primarch!

The ocular sensors bleeped, each slowly winking out. Its version of shutting the eyes. It would drift back into the comfort of sleep. It would forget about such outrageous thoughts of perfidy among the Legions. It would disregard such whimsical follies that surely could not exist. It would sleep, and it would dream of the days when it had strode alongside the Emperor of Mankind on a hundred worlds.

Behind the thick hide of admantium, behind the life-sustaining sarcophagus, a small smile crept onto a haggard face.


	26. To Reveal a Past

_Mephisteron: Hey buddy, I can't respond to the private messages you keep on sending me since you've turned off the messaging feature. But to answer your question, my update time will generally fluctuate depending on whether I'm busy or not as well as what content I'm writing._

_Ironside2052: Incidentally, the farseer gets a little section of her own in this chapter! In terms of which expansion this fic takes place in, most of it will be during the Wrath timeline. However, some events that have occurred will happen in a different order and some characters you have thought dead will reappear. In terms of character pairing, I frankly have no idea. Anyone of the female characters might end up as a interest to Avarian, and maybe none of them will._

_Leafy876: The dreadnought will not be going into combat anytime soon. As for its allegiance, well, you should have a pretty good idea what Legion it once belonged to from the various hints I've inputted throughout these last chapters! _

_Dumbledore Is Gay: Space Marines, while being genetically engineered, still possess some humanity. Grey Knights on the other hand, have lost theirs completely to become brain-washed daemon killers._

_Lunatic Pandora1: Indeed! While the Adeptus Astartes may seem to be all brawn, no brain, nothing could be further from the truth. Most battle-brothers in the main battle companies will have decades if not centuries of combat experience as well as possessing the finest tactical minds in the Imperium._

_KitsuneOverlord: The shifting of 1__st__ and 3__rd__ person POVs was kind of a gamble at first, and I thought about changing it for the first few chapters or so. Still, it works, and I'm glad I've stuck with it. Well, Avarian has been favoring Keina recently, as shown in the Battle of the Undercity. But, I wouldn't go so far as to call it "favoring"! _

_Emperor chronicler: The Legion the dreadnought belongs to should be very much apparent from the hints I've been throwing out throughout the recent chapters. Read them again and I think you'll have a good guess! Your questions will be answered in this chapter! _

_Thule: Heresy-era dreadnoughts were actually of the MK-IV series, and some of them are still in use as of the 41s millennium as venerable dreadnoughts in various Space Marine chapters. _

_Thekilleregglord: Well, some things will be able to stop it. But they'll probably be on the levels of Arthas and Yogg-saron. Anything else well be pretty much crushed by its power fist!_

_Jyggilag: Heh, do not be so sure about that… The dreadnought, while immobile, does not have any damaged systems. All it requires is power, and that is something which will be revealed in later chapters._

_Malcho1234: Big trouble indeed!_

_Soulless Reader: Eh, they don't arrest people based on their skin color. At least, not from what I discerned. I just added that in to make Doan sound desperate… :P In any case, I would imagine the Scarlet Crusade to operate much like the Inquisition, going to places that have been affected by the plague, and arresting everyone in the area, whether they have caught the disease or not. The dreadnought truly awakening and kicking ass will have to wait, I'm sorry to say. You're just going to have to read on to find out just where it is located and what implications it might hold for Azeroth! I'll update the Twilight sub-story when I have the time for it. Most of my time, as you can imagine, is dedicated to this fic, so I can update my other works only once in a while._

_Arsenel: Yup. The only opposition that would truly trouble a Space Marine would be a magic user of high level. And since Avarian hasn't encountered much of those so far, he has understandably inflicted a considerable amount of havoc amongst the Burning Legion. However, I have a feeling this will change when our hero boldly descends into underground catacombs of Scholomance… The fog you speak of is something that I've purposely built. I don't want to divulge everything all at once, so you'll see a slow process in revealing the plot._

_InboxPie: I praise His name with this chapter…_

_BloodRedSword: They do not have a prayer…_

_Twiggy: It should be apparent what Legion the dreadnought belongs to through the various hints I have given throughout the past chapters. And yes, the Forsaken will attempt to kill our hero with the plague, though the results might leave you wondering._

_Vashanti: Oh, the Ancient One will get his back story, just not now. Like much of the characters you have already encountered, his fleshing out will be progressive._

_Dusel: Not a chapter, but a Legion… :P_

_Chris Adair: Though the dreadnought is capable of besting many beings on Azeroth, Avarian will still remain the pivotal main character in this fic. The Imperial Truth as well as the Imperial Creed/Faith will have a part to play._

_Gforce member45: Which only means you'll have much to enjoy later on! :D Hmmm… you are right of course. Many of the things I have mentioned will have an impact on the plot. And I would be a failure of an author if you knew the entire plotline from chapter one! _

_Weapon-VII: Imperial tech is actually very, very robust. We see this from the lasgun, which can be recharged by exposing it to sunlight to the Leman Russ battle tank, which can run on anything from promethium to a six pack of beer. It would stand to reason that a dreadnought sarcophagus, while extremely advanced, share the same robust traits. Heck, techmarines retrieve the shells of destroyed dreadnoughts so they can fix it up for the next occupant! The dreadnought will appear later on in the fic._

_RokkitBoyz: You'll just have to figure out which Legion it belongs to! :P_

_Timewatch: The "fellow" is a dreadnought, a Space Marine hero placed within the admantium hull of a walker machine so he may continue to smite the foes of the Emperor._

_Madork Gunna: Ahhh… but an ork brings ork spores, and that would complicate the plot in a very unnecessary way. As for the rituals, remember that the dreadnoughts in the 41__st__ millennium require such services to function. A pre-Heresy dreadnought would most likely frown at the attempt to awaken it with what it would consider useless babble that deviates from the Imperial Truth._

_Vendoban: Now, I didn't say the dreadnought was in Tirisfal…_

_Arch Indar: Thank you!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Well, what Avarian does to the Scarlet Crusade is in this very chapter._

_Sarge51: Nope, not a one time thing. You'll be seeing him later on as a member of Avarian's party._

_Peanuckle: Glorious indeed brother, glorious indeed._

_Dakaath: You are correct. It is a dreadnought. Heh, you might be surprised what can power it…_

_Akira Stridder: Dreadnoughts are basically life-sustaining engine built into a war machine with armor thicker than a tank's. Space Marine heroes are placed into these walkers when they have been injured almost to the point of death. As you can imagine, Astartes hero + walking engine of destruction = massive awesomeness._

_Knives91 and Ranger24: Thank you!_

Chapter 25

Her world had been shattered.

For months they had waited for the arrival of the Iron Angels with bated breath. For months they had hoped for the Adeptus Astartes to descend on their world, promising fiery retribution to their foes. For months they had fought off the encroaching darkness of despair and staved off repeated assaults by the undead, so that the Space Marines would arrive to strike the final blow.

Their prayers for salvation had been answered. But in a way that none could have foreseen.

Whitemane could not understand. Why was this angel so enraged at them? Why was he so furious at them when they had committed no wrong? The faith of the Scarlet Crusade was pure and untainted; the sole remainder of the Light left in the blighted lands of Lordaeron. Their purpose was clear and driven; to destroy all trace of the undead in their domain and rightfully take back the realms of King Teneas. Indeed, had not the Iron Angel commended her in her pursuit of the Crusade's goals and by extension, the men and women under her command?

The High Inquisitor felt her head spinning. She shut her eyes tightly to calm herself.

Their encounter with the angel was not what she had expected to say the least. Before his arrival, Whitemane had mused on how such an event might play out. All of her imaginings were full of fire and brimstone speeches and the cheering adulation of her soldiers as the Iron Angel praised her for her efforts. Such an action had happened. The giant had extolled her, albeit in a very brief manner. However, it was praise nonetheless, and her heart had swelled with pride at his words.

Oh, how quickly it all went astray from there.

She sighed explosively, her eyes flashing back open in accompaniment with her sudden outlet of breath.

They were in the Chapel Grounds once again. The giant had ordered it. But unlike last time, where it had been filled with excited Crusaders eagerly listening to her and the Iron Angel's exchange, it was now full of dejected warriors meandering about with no purpose in mind. The angel's fury had affected them all. To her front stood Arcanist Doan, wringing his hands fretfully as his entourage of apprentice mages whispered nervously amongst themselves. Interrogator Vishas crouched uneasily in the shadows provided by the pillars of stone that decorated the courtyard, attempting to hide himself from the sunlight as well as from the angel's wrathful glare. The torturer's acolytes similarly strove to remain in the darkness, both to avoid the light of day and the giant's notice. Houndmaster Loksey was here as well, the huntsman slouched against a fountain wall, watching glumly as his three prized dogs lazed idly by his feet. His beastmasters sat with their hounds, hands gripped tightly on unstrung bows, eyes averted from the Iron Angel. Next to Loksey was Herod, standing rigidly to attention, surrounded by a crowd of his trainees who all looked distinctively afraid. The champion of the Scarlet Crusade's features was masked by the horned helm he wore, but from the rapidly darting movements of his pupils visible through the visor slits, Whitemane knew he was as uncomfortable as the rest of them.

And that was not all. Every Crusader still residing at the monastery had been called. Scarlet Gallants and Defenders glanced anxiously at each other, mailed hands twitching by their sides. Chaplains and Monks murmured prayers to the Light, trying desperately to find solace through their intoned litanies. Soldiers and Guardsmen, the footmen of the Crusade, glued their sights to their boots, unwilling to stare at the giant. The Sorcerers and Wizards were ringed around the inner walls, pacing apprehensively to and fro.

The High Inquisitor wanted to cry out in protest. Wanted to rail against the situation.

It should not be like this! Her warriors should not have to suffer this ignominy! Who was this angel, this man, to criticize them for their efforts? Who was he to condemn them when he did not know the whole picture? Who was he to revile them when he did not know the suffering the undead have brought to them and their families? It didn't make sense! The Iron Angels were protectors of humanity! All humanity! The remembrancer had said so! The prisoners in the dungeons were once human, yes, she could concede on that fact. But they had been in contact with the plague! And that meant they were but just one step away from becoming the Lich King's minions! Why could the angel not see this?

Her gaze swept up to the giant by her side, her heart full of righteous defiance. And faltered. The man's pale countenance was stern and unyielding, his jaw clenched in a frightful manner. Blue eyes shone with restrained anger, piercing and painful to all that were encompassed in the glare. Whitemane's urge to object died in a very sudden and agonizing manner. Exacerbated no doubt, by the sight of the hideous, spiked toothed sword rammed into the stone ground, the angel's plated gauntlet clasped resolutely over the skull shaped pommel.

She hastily turned away. However, her movement had not gone unnoticed.

"You have something to say, inquisitor. Speak," the angel's voice no longer sounded of discordant metal, but remained intimidating all the same. Every Crusader within the grounds winced visibly.

"Well, I… I mean… We're…" she struggled with the words, trying to convey her thoughts and fears all at once. She shot a hopeful look at Doan, trying to catch the arcanist's eye in a wordless gesture for assistance. The mage shrugged helplessly and shook his head. Her roving eyes wandered to Loksey, beseeching him for aid. The Houndmaster refused to acknowledge her, his attention steadfastly affixed to his dogs. What about Vishas? Surely the torturer would help her? The Interrogator returned her look and whimpered. He went back to inspecting his already clean torturing poker for stains. If not him then Herod! The Scarlet Champion blinked as her gaze roamed towards him. The giant of a man abruptly found an extremely interesting sight in a nearby pillar and swiveled his head to glare at it.

Useless! The whole lot of them!

"The… Surely you… I think…" she continued to flounder, knowing full well how ridiculous she sounded.

Thankfully, her discomfort was alleviated when the last group of Crusaders sprinted into the Chapel Grounds, hurried by the courier she had sent. They did a double-take at the sight of the Iron Angel standing imperiously on the steps to the Cathedral. They raised their weapons to cheer. Then stopped, suddenly realizing the tension that hung thick in the air. They inched slowly with no small trace of confusion to join those already gathered.

"Is that the last of your men?" the Iron Angel interrupted her rambling.

"Y-Yes. All those who still reside in the monastery have been assembled, as per your instructions," she replied tensely.

"Very well," the black clad giant slowly turned his statuesque face towards each Crusader in turn, spearing each and everyone with a judging glare. None dared to glower back.

"You all wonder why you are here," the angel's stentorian voice rang out, "Why my fury is directed towards you. Some of you think it is because of what occurred in the dungeon that raised my ire. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have walked hundreds of battlefields in my service to the Emperor. Seen horrors uncountable and indescribable. What hold can such a sight have over me, when I have already seen everything this dark galaxy is capable of? No. I am not distressed by your dungeon. Nor am I angry at you. But I am angry at my belief in you. I am angry with myself."

Whitemane felt her fears vanish. So the angel held no ill thought towards her and the Scarlet Crusade. While the thought was comforting, the High Inquisitor was still hesitant in fully believing the giant's words. For one, why would his rage be directed at himself? It was a question that she felt was desperately in need of answering. And from the curious yet pensive looks her Crusaders were giving the angel, they felt the same way.

"When I first set foot on this world, my misgivings were grave and many. I encountered a xeno species called the night elves, as well as blasphemous daemons known as the Burning Legion. I have no doubt that you are familiar with both. However, as heretical as such beings are, I have dealt with their ilk before. I put aside my qualms and set upon the foe with bolt and blade. I purged the warp scum from the alien town of Astranaar, and nearly cleansed its inhabitants as well. What stopped me was my inadequate knowledge of this planet as well as my surroundings. There were no allies that I could rely on within the vicinity, and I was thusly forced to rely on the xenos for information, an action that still galls me."

The Iron Angel remained unmoving as he continued his tale.

"It was only in the xeno capitol of Darnassus that I finally caught sight of the first human on this world. A traitor. A turncoat to the glory that is mankind. The simple fact that he could coexist peaceably with the xeno is a testament to how far he has fallen from the Emperor's Light. And that was not all. I journeyed to Theramore, hoping to find a bastion of humanity. Sadly, I was denied this hope. Theramore held as much xenos and abhumans as did Darnassus. The city's ruler even dared to defend her alien counselors when I offered my opinion regarding their deceitful existence. I was sure then, that this world was beyond saving. Until I met all of you."

The giant's face relaxed from its previously stern expression.

"You cannot imagine my joy when I held the vid-slate in my hands. You cannot imagine the fierce pride that beat within my hearts. I saw a glimpse of humanity's magnificent past, a time when the primarchs and the Legions stood united in their crusade against the enemies of mankind. The implications that it held were tremendous. And it was thanks only to your arcanist that such a valuable piece of archeotech was preserved."

Doan beamed proudly at being recognized, his nervousness gone the instant the angel praised him. His novices likewise displayed small smiles. Any lauding heaped on their master, also to an extent affected them.

"Through it, I realized that this world had been graced by the Great Crusade. Ten thousand years ago, Astartes such as I landed on this planet and brought with them the tenets of the Imperial Faith. No longer did I think this world was in need of cleansing. My priorities changed. Changed from combating the xeno and the daemon to leading and guiding those who have strayed from the Emperor's true purpose. I had finally encountered humans worthy of the Imperium. Men and women who reviled the xeno, who were as faithful as I to the Emperor. Then I saw your dungeon."

The High Inquisitor grimaced. Her gaze focused on the small gaggle of wretched beings cowering in a corner of the courtyard. The Argent Dawn paladin stood guard over them, shielding the weaklings despite his own injuries. They had been herded into the Chapel Grounds under her orders, lest the angel change his mind in regards to their fate.

Whitemane felt her lips curl upwards into a sneer. This was the very reason the Scarlet Crusade and the Argent Dawn would never see eye to eye. Their care for the feeble and the pathetic prevented them from truly committing their forces to fight the Scourge. The only way to wage an effective battle against the undead was to adhere to the concept of total war. The weak be damned. If only she had ordered Vishas to do away with the prisoners sooner, then the despicable incident with the angel would have never happened!

"Words cannot describe my sorrow as I saw the truth behind your religion of Light. Even more so when I realized the similarities between it and the Imperial Creed. I was saddened to see the purity I had envisioned turn out to be nothing more than the senseless torture of your fellow man."

The giant's face returned to its previously stern incarnation.

"You call me Iron Angel. That is true. I am one of those that the remembrancer has spoken of. I am an Angel of Death, a battle-brother of the Adeptus Astartes, a Space Marine. But, I am also different from what he has described. Ten thousand years have passed, ten thousand years in which the great glories he has portrayed have all but disappeared. The Great Crusade is no more, and those that you saw on the vid-slate gone with it. There is nothing now but ashes of what once was humanity's destiny."

Bitterness seeped into the angel's features. The massive hand that rested over the toothed sword's pommel twitched.

"No more do the warships of mankind travel in vast armadas to liberate our kin from tyranny and oppression. No more do the mighty Legions of the First Founding do battle besides their primarchs in the name of the Emperor and mankind. No more do we spread into the cosmos as the rightful masters of the universe. We have fallen stagnant, and with our descent into ignominious stagnancy comes those who would take advantage of our weakness. Our empire is attacked at every opportunity by the alien and the xeno, who would enslave us all to their whimsical follies. We are besieged from within by traitors and heretics, who would sacrifice our souls to the dark deities they worship. Ancient threats stir from planets we have long colonized as ours, reaping a trail of death and destruction to our populations."

No noise save the giant's voice sounded from the grounds. Near five hundred Crusaders stood or sat stock still as they listened to Iron Angel's saga. Even the prisoners who had been so recently freed had stopped their mewling, entranced like their captors by the stentorian tone and the story it carried.

What she would give to have such influence over her soldiers.

"These are the trials we have faced through the ages. Continue to face even now. These are the sufferings that we have borne for ten millennia. But we have not fallen, yet! No! The darkness that threatens to engulf us all are held at bay only through the deeds of humanity's greatest heroes! Marneus Calgar of the Ultramarines! Lord Commander Solar Macharius! Malcador the Sigillite! Dante of the Blood Angels! Sebastian Thor! Saint Sabbat! High Marshal Helbrecht of the Black Templars! It is only through heroes like them do we still persevere to this day. The blood of heroes and martyrs fuels the Imperium, but it is only through the ultimate sacrifice of one man that saved us all from destruction. That man is the Emperor, and I will tell you his story and that of the Imperium of Man."

* * *

The inhabitants of this world called this place the Burning Steppes. Farseer Yrlith could see why.

Craggy foothills and deep ravines met her disapproving stare, framed against a sky forever orange red in tint. Melted rock dotted the landscape, liquefied by the summoning of Ragnaros through the sorceries of the foolish Dark Iron Dwarves. Rumbling rivers of lava snaked and coiled around the gargantuan blackish volcano known as Blackrock Mountain. The peak itself continued to spew fire and ash into the air, further polluting an already sullied atmosphere.

She was sitting on the summit of a small hill, allowing a commanding view of her surroundings. Her coned helm rested blithely in her lap, the blue of the wraithbone contrasting with the white of her cloak. Her Singing Spear joined the helm in its rest, lying horizontally across her thighs.

A waft of acrid wind blew towards her. Yrlith remained motionless as the pungent breeze buffeted her with dust. She was in her meditative state, a deep trance where she explored the fates and divined the future. Nothing short of an enemy attack could rouse her from it. But that did not mean she was completely helpless. Many times her foes had attempted to assassinate her in this seemingly vulnerable reverie, only to have their bodies torn asunder and their minds flayed by her psychic might.

The Eldar had existed for eons. It stood to reason that they, above all other races, would find a way to balance relaxation with alertness.

She blinked. Her trance had ended.

Yrlith frowned. The Warp was weak here. She could no longer discern into the web of fates that was being spun around her. Such a revelation both frightened and relieved her. On one hand, she could not guide her fellow Eldar without a fixed link to the Empyrean. That scared her. On the other, it was strangely comforting to know the hopes and dreams of her kin no longer rested solely on her shoulders.

Dainty footsteps sounded from behind her. The farseer grimaced. Had this been any other world, her psychic awareness would have already told her from within a hundred paces who it was that stalked her. If it were any other world.

"Exalted farseer," the voice was a female's, soothing as a mother talking to a babe, yet hardened from treading the Path of the Warrior for millennia. She knew who this voice belonged to.

"We are not on the craftworld anymore, Liltieth. We have no need for titles now, especially among siblings."

"As you wish… sister."

Yrlith smiled thinly at the Exarch's hesitation. She was the elder of the two, and in their childhood, had delighted in making her sibling uncomfortable. Some things never change.

"Do the Rangers report anything?" her question carried richly, despite the unclean air.

"Yes sister. The Space Marine has contacted the lesser mon-keigh and seems to be rallying them to his cause. Though I do not know what good leading a pack of beasts will do."

"Beasts they may be, but their crudeness is offset by their loyalty."

Liltieth shifted her bearing slightly, a well-hidden transition of emotion unnoticeable to the unpracticed eye. Her way of signifying surprise. The Eldar were a race possessing of emotions on levels higher than any human could possibly fathom. When they felt anger, their very bodies would simmer with rage. When they felt despair, their hearts could die from the heavy despondence. When they felt passion, it burned them from within, threatening to consume them if they did not find an outlet for their ardor. When they felt pleasure…

The farseer wearily pushed the thought from her mind. None of them had felt pleasure in a very long time. Not after the birth of She Who Thirsts.

"You would… laud these mon-keigh, Yrlith?" her sister's tone remained neutral, though her stance spoke otherwise.

"Recognition, Liltieth. Recognition. The humans are a stupid and obstinate species, but some of their traits are… desirable to say the least."

"Perhaps. But I still do not understand why we must go through so much trouble in aiding one mon-keigh."

"Our fates are tied with him, sister. Even if we wanted to, we could not free ourselves from the web of destiny that has ensnared us all."

"A human? One _human_? How could he possibly affect us? We are their betters, their superiors! Their pitiful Imperium is a far cry from what we are!"

"What we once were," she corrected.

"I still do not understand," Liltieth stated, the agitation clear in her tone.

"You tread the Path of the Warrior. I tread the Path of the Seer. You fight for our kin. I guide them to their fates. That is all you need to know… Besides. I think your opinion would differ if you knew who this mon-keigh was."

Her sister stiffened. Yrlith fought down the flicker of a smile that threatened to envelop her features.

"It is… Him then."

"And if it was?"

"I thought he was dead. Killed at Aegudun Hive. The Altaioc Pathfinder told me so!"

"He told you a lie. Under my order."

A second of silence reigned.

"Why?" her sister managed.

"He is a tool useful to all Eldar. A pawn that still has a part to play in the symphony that is our fates. I could not allow you to hunt him down and kill him."

"You know the dishonor I have suffered at his hands! You would not allow me to have my vengeance?"

"Your thirst for revenge can wait. As long he is still useful to us, you will not touch him."

The farseer could literally feel the waves of resentment emanating from her sister's form. The Iybraesil were a matriarchal society, dedicated to the blind crone goddess of the underworld, Morai-Heg and the purpose of reclaiming lost secrets from the Crone Worlds. As such, their warriors were mostly women and highly possessive. Very possessive.

"And if his abilities should prove to be lacking?"

"Then you may have your way with him."

"I have your word then?"

A sudden memory flashed into her mind. A young Liltieth crying as she teased her with a newly obtained Isha doll. Oh how some things never changed.

The smile that she had tried so hard to urge away spread without resistance across her lips.

"You do."


	27. Remembrance and Redemption

**Author's Note: Yes, I know, this was a fast update. Ideas flowed pretty much instantly when I wrote this chapter, so don't expect this to be the norm! Now, I expect much reviews for this surprise update!**

_Dusel: Indeed!_

_Lunatic Pandora1: Pretty much. The Eldar have always been arrogant, but from their past, one could understand their temperament. Though to an xenophobic society such as the Imperium of Man, there can be no understanding._

_Yoshomo: If you thought the last chapter was good, you'll enjoy this one. And the Argent warrior will have a part to do with the plot._

_ArcherReborn2: All will be revealed in time… in this very chapter in fact!_

_Arsenel: I'm not sharing much on purpose. Just adds to the mystery! :P _

_Knives91: You didn't have to wait long did you… :D_

_Thule: Thank you! I try to make my characters sound real as well as within the realms of fluff and lore._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Well, at least you get another chapter this soon to offset the shortness! And to put your fears at rest, our hero will definitely not become one of the living dead._

_RokkitBoyz: You have many questions, and I'm afraid I can't answer all of them without giving away parts of the plot. I can only tell you to read on! _

_Sarge51: Thanks!_

_Ranger24: Heh, the Eldar will be doing what Eldar do best! Interfering with our hero's plans and generally becoming a royal pain in the rear for all those involved._

_Gforce member45: The nids eh? Ahhh… I remember when my Basilik landed a perfect pie plate on my friend's Warrior Brood. Wiped the suckers all out. Has two Leman Russes as well. Managed to down a full brood of Genestealers between them. Good times… Good times._

_Xynth: Aye, my response section is getting longer ain't it? Well, if it gets any longer, I'll just incorporate all my answers in one big paragraph. Luckily, it hasn't reached that point yet. Especially not with this chapter! :P Yeah, I put Loken into the fic as a kind of treat for the Horus Heresy fans out there. The irony in Avarian thinking Loken as a traitor is delicious to say the least. In response to Scholomance and Stratholme, I'm only going to say that the Scourge is going to be confronted with a reformed Crusade much more efficient and motivated than what they're used to dealing with…_

_Akira Stridder: Thanks!_

_Vashanti: Thank you! This chapter should answer all your questions!_

_Malcho1234: You'll just have to read on to find out!_

Chapter 26

The Reclusiam of the _Wings of Corax_ was a large place. It had to be. The battle barge could hold up to five companies worth of Space Marines, and that meant up to half a thousand of superhuman warriors who would need to be gathered in one place for prayers. Dark gothic architecture was prevalent throughout the ship, but was most predominant here, in the cloisters where the Chaplains of the Death Spectres would gather to preach to their battle-brothers. The pillars of stone that sprouted upwards around the sanctum and towards the ceiling bore flowery, idyllic scripts, carved by Occludus's finest craftsmen. Each line was a recorded testament of a battle won by the chapter or a heroic feat performed by one of its heroes. The scripts started from the bottom of each column and ended only at the top, where a normal man's eyes could not hope to pierce into the inky blackness that was the apex of the chamber. But such writing was not meant to be read by normal men. Enhanced eyesight did wonders here. Banners depicting mighty warriors clad in power armor prevailing against the foes of humanity drooped from the lofts, each lovingly woven by the inhabitants of the Death Spectres homeworld. The foul creatures of Hive Fleet Jormungandr, the greenskin filth of Waaagh Killteef, the pirate Eldar belonging to the Kabal of the Emasculators, the Tau destroyed during the Zeist Campaign, the host of Word Bearers slain during the Siege of Aegudun Hive. All these enemies and more were displayed amongst the standards, emblazoned with a victorious son of Corax standing proud with sword, axe, or raised fist over their broken bodies.

The Death Spectres were not a First Founding Chapter. They had not stood by the Emperor during the Great Crusades or the subsequent events during the Horus Heresy. They had no successors to their name. But judging from their achievements and victories, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

A massive golden plaque of the Imperial Eagle adorned the wall furthest from the entrance, wider than the hull of a Land Raider. The skull and scythe motif of the Death Spectres hanged below the Aquilla, lesser in size, but no less glorious. Long, dangling sheaves of lettered parchment accompanied both tablets, penned by the chapter's Chaplains on the tenets of duty, loyalty, and courage. The tenets that described all Astartes. The parchment themselves were only made readable by rings of faint light, cascaded from above by candles suspended in midair by silver chains. All these things leant an atmosphere of solemnity that was well-deserved for a place of worship.

It was in the Reclusiam, that sacred artifacts were hoarded from the sight of all but the most senior Death Spectres. It was here that the feats and achievements of the chapter's great heroes were eulogized for all to hear and then recorded in long winding tomes to be kept by the Codiciers of the Librarium. It was also here that the fallen were to be commemorated for their service before their mortal shells were placed in sealed caskets and entombed in the Halls of Remembrance.

Veteran Sergeant Darkur had been here before. Numerous times. His ivory colored helm was nestled in the crook of one arm, crest painted with a laurel of black feathers denoting his rank. The other should have ended in a gigantic power fist, cackling with discharge, but not today. There was no war to fight just yet. Instead, the limb ended in a normal sized hand, normal for an Astartes, clenched tight with grief. The sergeant's gaze was riveted to the coffin placed in front of him, a simply crafted thing of black steel.

It was empty. They had found no trace of Brother Avarian's body. They could find no parts of him to bury.

The entirety of the Fifth Company was present. Assault Marines, Devastators, members from the six Tactical squads, the Terrorblades, and the recently appointed Captain Zamiel. All were here to honor the passing of one of their own.

Darkur played the events that took Avarian from his command once again in his head.

The daemons had materialized in the ship seconds after the Gellar Field briefly shut down. Foul warp beings of the Ruinous Powers, they were quick to assault the serfs who crewed and maintained the battle barge. Every Marine from all five companies were dispatched in hunter-killer teams to eliminate the infestation. With precise volleys of bolter fire and gouts of fiery promethium, the daemons had been driven back with little casualties on the side of the Space Marines. The last few were trapped in the lower levels of the space ship, and Darkur's combat squad had chanced upon them.

The exchange was brief and chaotic.

Tanrek, Natios, and Usuar had opened fire immediately, sending a withering barrage of bolt shells into the creatures of the Immaterium. Twisted and defiled forms exploded wetly into gory chunks, only to reform into even more grotesque shapes. A hulking bear-like daemon with a multitude of bulbous eyes and a three-pronged claw for an arm had managed to brave through the salvo. It tackled Usuar to the ground, the powers of the dark gods strengthening it beyond even Astartes levels. As it raised the sharp talons to strike, Avarian's chainsword descended in a blurry arc, and clove its head in twain.

Darkur had thanked the Emperor then, as he did numerous times, to be gifted with such a dependable co-commander. Had Avarian's arrival with the other combat squad been a second too late, Usuar's life would have been in question. More importantly, he had brought along Halstis, the squad's special weapons trooper. The flamer the Marine carried was a welcome sight indeed. A plume of blazing promethium later, most of the warp beings had vanished, banished back to the Empyrean as their bodies melted under the intense flames.

It should have ended then and there.

As Darkur smote the last of the daemons into unrecognizable ruins with his power fist, a spherical ball of warp matter blasted from seemingly out of nowhere. The Death Spectres sergeant was forced to watch in horror as the globe of seething energy enveloped Avarian and obstructed the veteran warrior from view. When the orb of blasphemous magiks finally dissipated, there was nothing left of his battle brother.

The sergeant snarled. This was no way for an Astartes to die.

Space Marines did not mourn for their dead in the regular sense as humans did. They had no use for wretched weeping and speeches of lament. They did not grieve for the loss of life itself. They grieved for the loss of battles that could have been won, the loss of glories that could have been claimed, the loss of victories that could have been celebrated. They grieved for their lost battle brothers because they could no longer attain these things for themselves and for the Emperor.

There was no glory in Avarian's death.

Brother Meteron saw his sergeant's downturned expression.

"To have fallen in service the day before his formal induction into the First Company…" he whispered, unwilling to disturb the silence that had settled.

"First, Captain Sventius, slain fighting the orks at Pallonia. Now Brother Avarian. Even before the battle against Abaddon commences, we begin to lose our own," muttered Natios.

"It as if though the Emperor is displeased with us…" Ichsan suggested.

"You will not continue in this line of thought brother," Darkur snapped, "We are the Emperor's Finest. The Father of Mankind watches over all of us, as does the primarch. To suggest anything otherwise would be heresy."

Ichsan nodded fervently, his head bowed.

"I stand reprimanded, Brother Sergeant."

"Ensure that it does not happen again," Darkur grunted.

The admantium gates that led to the inner sanctum swung open, revealing two towering figures. One wore a skull-faced helm, beady red vision slits staring malevolently from the stylized eye sockets. Its form was clad in a suit of artificer armor, decorated with a myriad of purity seals. An axe like weapon was clasped resolutely in a gauntleted fist, its end a golden eagle with razor sharp edges for wings. The other marched slightly behind the first. Whereas the Death Spectres all wore the black colors of their progenitor chapter, this one was covered in a shade of blue. It used the gnarled steel staff it held in one hand as a walking stick, faint clacks sounding whenever the rod struck ground. A psychic hood emerged from the neck brace of its power armor, forcing a dome of ceramite over its head. Its face was unveiled, pure white with charcoal eyes, a geneseed rendered condition shared equally among the members of the chapter.

Chaplain Targon and Epistolary Seydon.

The assembled Marines, all except Captain Zamiel, inclined their heads at the ranking Astartes's approach.

"Brothers," Targon's voice was a rasping sound that fit eerily well with skull mask he wore, "I wish we could have met under more auspicious circumstances."

The Chaplain halted before Avarian's empty casket. He placed a plated hand on top of the sarcophagus, a sign of respect, before speaking again.

"However, such a situation cannot be wished away nor thought away. Our brother is dead, taken from us by the perfidious daemons of the Ruinous Powers."

The last sentence elicited a wave of anger among the gathered Death Spectres. Jaws were clenched. Hands were balled into tight fists. Stances changed. Hate was a word barely able to describe the emotion a Space Marine felt towards foul minions of Chaos.

"Vengeance is on your minds. This, I know. But do not allow it to blind you. As much as hatred burns in our veins when we fight the Arch Enemy, we must never allow for it to consume us. Remember that while we are the Angels of Death, the flesh and blood of the Emperor made incarnate, we are still not infallible to the temptations of Chaos. Many Astartes have fallen prey to their emotions and lured from the path of righteousness. Their souls are eternally damned, all due to the simple error of letting their passion obscure their judgment. We must not tread the same road, lest we become the pawns of the Great Enemy."

Darkur nodded in agreement with the Chaplain's wise counsel. As Zamiel was their captain and tactical leader, Targon was their spiritual advisor and head of faith.

"But today is not a day for lecture or sermon. Today we commemorate one of our fallen brothers, a fellow son of Corax, and a warrior worthy to bear the mantle of a Space Marine. We mourn for him, as Brother Avarian can no longer stride the fields of battle to wage war in His name. Yet, even as we grieve for his legacy, let our hearts also be filled with joy. For even though our brother is no longer with us, his soul now stands beside the Emperor, ready to do battle by His side. Such is the fate that we all aspire to, and we rejoice for him as does our primarch and father."

A hundred fists smashed into ceramite chest plates in a gesture of reverence.

"In the name of Corax and the Emperor, we venerate the fallen," they intoned together, "We rejoice for our dead as---"

Targon raised a hand to stop their chant. The gathered Astartes broke off the litany, looks of confusion being speared towards one another. The rituals that followed after a battle-brother's death was both a long and sacred process. It was unusual that such services would be interrupted, especially by one who was normally so stringent in matters of faith.

"Today I ask not for the rites of the dead to be performed. I ask only that you listen. The tale that I will relate to you this day is one worthy of the chapter's greatest heroes. It is a tale of bravery and sacrifice. It is a lesson that we should all take to heart. It is an aim we should all try to strive for."

The Chaplain paused, the ruby slits of his skull mask glinting in the dim light. He focused on each of the Marines in turn, a gauging glare that would have stricken normal men with fear. But there were no such men here, only battle-hardened warriors who lived and died for their Liege. Only when every Astartes had passed under his judgment did Targon begin anew.

"It began on the world of Kiron IV, two hundred years ago. A world conquered by the dark armies of Chaos. Its cities were smashed and burned by the heinous traitors, its people enslaved and tormented for their loyalty to the Emperor. Imperial forces reacted immediately. The sector governor organized a retaliatory fleet against the Ruinous Powers. This fleet included the Death Spectres Fifth Company. Us. We were quick to strike. Our drop pods rained from the sky like falling meteors of divine retribution. Our Thunderhawks strafed the traitor positions, destroying the turncoats with cannon and missile. Our battle-brothers visited misery and woe upon the heretics, and none could withstand their fury. But for all our righteous wrath, we could not save the population. Some had fallen to the worship of Chaos, their wills weak and easily bendable to the whispers of deluded power they were offered. These we scoured with bolter and chainsword, piling their bodies up in mounds to be burned. Most were slaughtered by the foul traitors, devoted to the Father of Mankind even in death. These we revered with catechisms and litanies, offering prayers of benediction for their souls. And in the ruins of the largest city on the planet, we discovered a boy…"

* * *

Her face burned. Burned with tears. Streams of liquid flowed down her cheeks. She did not make an attempt to halt them.

"The Emperor fell. His golden clad form, ruptured by the Arch-Traitor's blows, fell. His features contorted in pain, from both the mortal wounds inflicted by Horus and the heart wrenching agony that was his favored son's betrayal. He fell. The dreams of all mankind, the destiny of all humanity, fell with him. The Emperor's body landed heavily on the steps of the traitor's command bridge, his lifeblood seeping from a dozen wounds that would have killed a normal man thrice over. Such was the love for his son; that he could not bear to lift an arm against Horus, despite the blasphemies the Warmaster had committed in the name of the Dark Gods. The Great Betrayer, bloated with corruption, placed a booted foot on the heaving chest of his father. Victory was his, and he was eager to gloat. The spiked mace that had ended the life of Sanguinius, primarch of the Blood Angels, rose, ready to take another life for its master."

High Inquisitor Whitemane felt the tears stained against her face as surely as she felt the sorrow that pounded within her heart. The proud, ruthless woman that led the Scarlet Crusade to Tirisfal was gone, replaced temporarily by a young girl sobbing passionately with the Iron Angel's story.

"The Father of Mankind reached out with an unsteady arm. Not to Horus. Not to the Arch-Traitor. The Emperor reached for the tattered body of Sanguinius. Even as his form was wracked with agonies unfathomable, he refused to think for himself. He cared only for his sons and for humanity. He saw the ruin that was the Beatific One, white feathered wings folded in the cold embrace of death, golden armor split open by the treacherous strikes of the Warmaster. The Emperor wept. He had failed his son. He had failed mankind. His plated fingers stretched for Sanguinius, stretched for seemingly forever."

Her Crusaders had long joined in her anguish. Some bawled openly, like newborn infants fresh from a mother's womb. Others cried silently, the only indication of their grief was the tearstains that covered their faces.

"Records are not clear as to what happened next. Some say a member of the Adeptus Custodes, the Emperor's own corps of bodyguards, happened onto the scene. He saw the Warmaster standing triumphantly over his liege, and with a roar of rage, charged, Guardian Spear lowered to deal death. Others proclaim it was an Imperial Fist Terminator, separated from Rogal Dorn and the others in Horus's flagship. He lumbered onto the command bridge. He saw Horus poised to strike the Emperor down, and with a battle cry on his lips, surged forward with thunder hammer swinging. Still others state that it was a mere soldier of the Imperial Army, an Ollanus Pious, who managed to fight to the bridge. He saw the Arch-Traitor reveling in his victory over the Master of Mankind, ready to destroy all that humanity has achieved in one single blow. He flung himself between the Emperor and Horus without a second thought. Whether any one of these is true has been debated by scholars of the Imperium for ten millennia. In the end, such deliberations are useless, for the result is the same. Horus flayed them alive with barely a glance in their direction."

The tears were drying, but the grief was still there. They waited with bated breath for the angel's next words.

"The Emperor cried out in horror at what his son had just done. To destroy another's life so easily, so readily without a thought of consequence. The Emperor realized then, that the Horus he knew and loved was gone forever. The first of the primarchs to be discovered, the man that lead the Luna Wolves to glory, the Warmaster that liberated a thousand planets from the tyranny of the xeno. That Horus was lost. Replaced with a terrible and malicious being that came from the Warp. A being that would be the doom and destruction of all mankind. The Great Protector cast aside all of his love, all of his sympathy, all of his compassion away to the winds. He steeled himself for what he must do in order to preserve humanity. Gathering his psychic might, the Emperor formed a bolt of terrible energies in the recesses of his mind. Horus turned, a look of terror plastered onto his face. Too late. The Father of Mankind smote him with the power of an erupting supernova, struck him with the power of an exploding star, smashed him with the power of two colliding suns. The Arch-Traitor was no more."

Whimpers sounded from the corner where the prisoners still sat. But these were no longer the pathetic mewlings of pain and fear. These were the cries of people whose hearts were filled with sorrow and regret.

"Rogal Dorn, progenitor of the Imperial Fists, strode finally to the bridge, his warriors in tow. He saw the ruined body of his father. He saw the destroyed form of his brother. With a cry of rage and pain, he broke the sword he had carried since his acceptance of his Legion across his knee, swearing never again to use it after his failure to protect the Emperor. Dorn rushed to the Master of Mankind's side, wishing for the best yet fearing for the worst. He kneeled by the Emperor's stricken frame. The Father of Humanity opened one eye, the other having been torn from its socket by Horus in their titanic duel. He whispered for Dorn to come closer. The primarch of the Imperial Fists obeyed. The Emperor was so close to death. So close to leaving the agony that wracked his mortal body. But he loved us. He could not, would not, leave us to our fates in an unforgiving galaxy. He whispered instructions to Dorn, to another one of his sons. It was instructions of how to graft him into the Golden Throne of Terra."

A fresh wave of sobbing broke from the scarlet clad soldiers. Even Loksey's hounds joined in, their somber howls forming a mournful dirge with the cries of their human masters.

"That was a long time ago. For ten thousand years the Emperor has sat atop the Golden Throne, not dead yet not alive. For ten thousand years he has stayed in this tormented existence, the power of his mind a beacon of radiance among the darkness of the forty-first millenium. For ten thousand years he has waged a war in the realms of the Warp, against the foul forces of Chaos that would so readily steal our souls. He is the undisputed Master of the Imperium. He is the Immortal Lord of a million worlds. He is the Great Protector of all mankind. He is the Emperor, AND HIS LIGHT SHINES UPON US ALL!"

Those last few words were a bellow. It deafened them with its volume, yet at the same time, bolstered their spirits with its tenacity. The effect was spontaneous. Swords were drawn from scabbards, thrust high into the air by eager limbs. Spears were lifted by galvanized arms, tips stabbing towards the sky. Hands were clenched into fists, punching again and again towards the heavens.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!!!"

Five hundred scarlet clad warriors roared as one.

* * *

"FOR THE EMPEROR!!! FOR THE EMPEROR!!! FOR THE EMPEROR!!!"

A night elf, a blood elf, an orc, and a Forsaken glanced at each other in discomfort. The fanaticism behind the words was alarming to say the least. Their steps faltered, ears straining to catch more of the strange battle cry.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!!! FOR THE IMPERIUM!!! FOR ALL MANKIND!!!"

The night elf drew an arrow from her leather quiver and slid it into the groove of her bow. The blood elf unsheathed two wicked looking daggers, spinning them confidently between her palms. The orc snorted and readied his axe and shield. The Forsaken reached for her bow crafted from bone and stole a shaft from the night elf's quiver.

"Revere the Emperor as the Light! Know that the Light is the Emperor! Do these things and you will be saved! Do these things and an Iron Angel will fight by your side!"

Three of them paused. They recognized this voice. The other did not, but could guess who it belonged to.

The valorous giant, thought the night elf.

The great warrior, thought the orc.

The omnipotent one, thought the Forsaken.

Mine, thought the blood elf.

"WE GIVE OURSELVES TO THE EMPEROR!!! WE ARE HIS BLESSED CHILDREN!!! FOR HIM WE GIVE OUR LIVES!!!"

The storm of shouts hastened their pace. Just what had he done with these zealots?

"Cast away your delusions! Throw away the remnants of your debauched religion! Become what the Emperor has envisioned you to be! Become the guardians of mankind! Become the Imperial Guard!"

"WE ARE SCARLET CRUSADE NO MORE!!! REBORN AS THE SCARLET GUARD!!! FOREVER IN HIS SERVICE!!!"

Their swift gait led them to a long snaking hall, empty of all signs of life. Just like every other place they had passed through in this monastery.

"We will cleanse the taint from this world with faith in our hearts and steel in our hands!"

"WE WILL CLEANSE!!!"

They sprinted down the corridor, weapons ready.

"We will purge the corruption from this planet with our belief in the Emperor and the fires of redemption!"

"WE WILL PURGE!!!"

The voice of their quarry was getting closer, as was the undesired tones of the Crusaders.

"We will slay all those who stand in our way, be they the undead of the Scourge or the daemons of the Burning Legion!"

"WE WILL KILL!!!"

They felt their very spines chill at that last phrase.


	28. Differences in Faith

_Identityof: Thank you!_

_Annara Ren: Heh, I am honored you think my story can compare to Charles Bhpin's Shinji and Warhammer 40k. His story is truly one continuous crowning moment of awesome. _

_AnimusFerrus: Space Wolves… the drunks everybody loves in 40k universe… However, I have already declared that there will be no more warhammer characters for a long while, if not ever._

_Gear-2557: Space Marines have no concept of romance and love. You might think he's working on a harem, but rest be assured, he won't realize just what he's gotten himself into until almost the end of the fic._

_Weapon-VII: The Scarlet Crusaders within Tirisfal will all fall under Avarian's sway, influenced by the vid-slate. The same cannot be said for the rest of the Crusade. Some of the more zealous members (who by the way happen to be all villains) will refuse to be converted, and will subsequently eat a boltgun round to the face._

_Jyggilag: A couple more chapters and you will see bloodshed!_

_Dumbledore is Gay: Reviews for the Review God!_

_RokkitBoyz: No more 40k characters for a while. And those that do appear will definitely not be on Avarian's side._

_Vashanti: The Scarlet Guard will be more effective. They have a tactical genius in command after all… And yes, those who follow our hero will be redeemed._

_Emperor Chronicler: Yup. Large scale battles await you faithful readers! Thousands of men marching into war! The air filled with bolts of magic! War in all its entirety! I think by Chapter 30, you will all be very pleased! To spread the word of the Emperor, well, what better way then arriving with the Scarlet Guard to combat the Scourge? Many will be attracted to the Light/Imperial Faith religion, and the more the merrier! As for Cataclysm, yes, I plan for that to happen as well, though it will occur in a sequel rather than this story._

_Skipper1337: Do not be so sure your choice of the Legion, my friend… The Scarlet Guard will not resemble the Scarlet Crusade in any way by the end of the fic. They will be a well-drilled, cohesive force that is a far cry from the scattered zealous warriors of the past. As for the Argent Dawn and the Scarlet Crusade uniting, well, that is a very likely possibility._

_Pinto: Thanks!_

_EvilManicX: All of whom will be of use to our now reluctant general. Mal'Ganis will also make appearances in the plotline. _

_Dakaath: The spreading of the Imperial Faith will occur, but it will occur through quite literally, "fire and sword"._

_Knives91: Well, Space Marines are what we would call zealots, no? The fact of the matter is, zealots will do very well when they have a clear purpose and a leader who is intelligent to use them to their full potential. Luckily for us, Avarian is one such leader._

_Thekilleregglord: One commissar has already appeared. More will come when the Scarlet Guard expands! Imperial tech will be widespread by the end of this fic._

_LunaticPandora1: Not until next chapter, I'm afraid._

_Mephisteron: No servant of the Emperor is useless!_

_Sarge51: Sadly no, Avarian is pretty much cut off from the rest of the Imperium._

_Overdrive1: The exarch will not be part of Avarian's group. But she will make her impact felt. As for your theory, you are close, but not quite. As for Azeroth being screwed… Maybe, maybe not. But I think our Space Marine will not go overboard in his cleansing. And yes, I have seen Bigdickcheney's videos. All very good and excellently made!_

_Akira Stridder: It has begun, and won't end for a very long time!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: The fan has been reached and will continue to stay there for a good amount of time!_

_Gforce member45: Avarian's back-story will be mentioned, but the full details will not be disclosed until later on._

_Timewatch: Nah, they'll purge Azeroth the old fashioned way. With sword and hammer! :P_

_DaemonWelsh: I thank you good sir, for reviewing this chapter!_

_Madork Gunna: The good guys of Warhammer 40k would undoubtedly be bad guys in the Warcraft universe. Funny how that works, eh?_

_DaveInACave: Space Marines are as logical as they are zealous. While they may not like it, they will work with xenos to combat a greater threat._

_Soulless Reader: Yes, that line was from Salamander. One of the lines that I remember the most for some reason. The Eldar will only be arseholes in the sense that they are so full of themselves. But their presence here is to help humanity, as well as themselves._

_Folklore Zombie: The poor sorcerer is still attempting to convert a reluctant Varian…_

_Ranger24: Astartes go to plenty of nice places! Armageddon, Cadia, Medusa. I hear the sights there are very pretty… :P_

_InboxPie: Thank you! I always aim to please the Emperor!_

_Vanbor the Fire Mage: One has already revealed her thoughts. The others will too in due time._

_Baak: Levels are a tricky subject in the WoW universe. While they are a somewhat accurate depiction of a character gaining experience, they do not tell the whole story. Indeed, a bolter shell will just as easily kill a level one character as a level eighty character. So, I will disregard them for the purposes of this fic._

_Xynth: The uniform won't be made until later, so you're going to have to make do with her in her standard garments for now. :P_

_ThawOmp: Thanks!_

Chapter 27

Their thunderous ovation sound around me, loud and deafening. Prayers of benediction are bellowed out, oaths of loyalty sworn, litanies of exaltation chanted out. All to the glorious Emperor of Mankind. All to He Who Sits Atop The Golden Throne. Fierce satisfaction beats within my hearts, dispelling the aura of gloom that has been prevalent throughout my mind just a few minutes before. I will not have to suffer through the heresies of this planet any longer! The Imperial Faith that I have thought to be lacking has resurged upon this world, and with it, we will cleanse the filth that is Chaos as well as any who dare stand against the Emperor's Will! The remembrancer would have been proud.

I nod with approval at each group of the newly sworn Imperial Guard. Interestingly enough, there seems to be different classes within their ranks.

Some are armored in suits of plate and mail, wielding heavy broadswords and large kite shields. Regular soldiers, I assume. They will hold the line in any formation, and can be relied on to slow the enemy down should the opposition prove too much to overwhelm. By these swordsmen are a crowd of lighter armored warriors. These men and women possess no plate at all, but are clad entirely in vests of chainmail. They arm themselves with long shafted spears, ten feet in length, not including the tipped head. These warriors have no protection besides the suits of mail they wore, and will have to be used in conjunction with the swordsmen to be effective. The further reach of their spears will prove useful indeed to the sword armed Crusaders, as well as the shields providing welcome protection to them in return.

Behind these two crowds is a smaller cluster of dual weapon users. A plethora of axes, blades, and maces are clasped resolutely in their gloved hands. I frown slightly. To wield two weapons at once in battle can prove to be a detriment as well as an advantage. The only warriors I have encountered in my two centuries of service that do use such a form of combat were the Eldar and their pirate kin. The swift form of a Howling Banshee Aspect Warrior emerges in my mind, a blur of motion almost too quick to catch even for my superior eyesight, twirling two curved swords expertly as she neared me. If it were not for the fact that the Eldar had been wounded before by her dark kindred, I would have surely been slain. However, the Emperor was with me that day, and I merely punched the wretched xeno to unconsciousness. But, I had been impressed with the alien's skill and dexterity in combat and wished more than once to face her again on the fields of battle. These Crusaders were no Aspect Warriors, and as I hated to admit it, would suffer horrendously in comparison to the xenos.

They notice my contemplative gaze and immediately fall to their knees in adulation. I wince at this zealous display of faith. A display that should rightfully be given to the Emperor. I suddenly realize why these warriors hold two weapons. They are the fanatics among these people. The ones so entwined with their religion, and now with the Imperial Faith, that they would charge unhesitantly into a seething mass of enemies if their masters ordered it. They wield blades and other armaments in each hand to kill faster, a far cry from the skill and finesse displayed by the Howling Banshee. These would have to be the line breakers of my impromptu army, fearless warriors who would be gathered in one placed and unleashed blindly upon the enemy.

My stare shifts further, and settles on the middle of the gathered Guardsmen. A particular throng catches my attention, about fifty in number. Their faces hidden in helms of red steel, bodies bedecked in full plate, they are the elite of these humans, as evidenced by the full panoply of armor that adorned their forms. Mighty warhammers and two-handed swords are held in strong grasps, ready to crash down or bite deep into the foe. An unexpected idea occurs to me. I smile thinly as I consider the implications of it. I store the thought away for later. The Scarlet Guard needs to resemble a true Imperial army that would be worthy in the Emperor's eyes, and I was the only one on hand who was capable of forcing such a transition.

Further back are what appear to be bowmen and war hounds. The archers themselves are encased in suits of hardened leather, dyed red to fit in with their cohorts. Hardly a decent form of protection. However, the weakness and lack of durability of their protection, while a glaring flaw, is an understandable one. They are ranged warriors, and as such, do not expect to be embroiled in the heat of a raging melee. They will be valuable at the back of a battle line, pelting the foe with shafts under the safeguard of their more close combat oriented cohorts. The dogs are a different matter entirely. Powerful beasts of streamlined muscle and brutish ferocity, they growl belligerently in my direction. These are not the creatures many Imperial nobles have for display in their luxurious abodes. These are creatures born for bloodshed and bred for slaughter. Useful tools.

My gaze once again roams, this time focusing on a myriad of what appears to be robe wearing adepts. Wielding wooden straight staffs topped with lustrous orbs, they seem to be out of place among these soldiers. Surely they do not tend to use these purely ceremonial weapons for combat? Indeed, some do not even possess the staffs of their compatriots, and appear to be unarmed. I grimace faintly. These people must serve some purpose if they are included in the ranks of the former Scarlet Crusade. Perhaps they are all psykers? And the staves they use, the conduit for their power? The esteemed Librarian of the Fifth Company, Epistolary Seydon, utilized such an implement to amplify his own already formidable psychic might, as did many of the Imperial Guard's battle-psykers.

But then again, these men and women do not possess the eerie and otherworldly aura of the psychically endowed I have been familiar with. That, and my thoughts have not been intruded upon yet. Maybe these seemingly noncombatants are this world's equivalent of the Imperial Guard's Commissars or Priests? Nevertheless, I will find uses for them.

My mind works feverishly as it recalls the numerous passages of the Codex Astartes. Though the tome of the esteemed Roboute Guilliman were supposed to apply mainly to the Space Marines, the theories and concepts would undoubtedly be pertinent in my situation as well. Battle lines spring into my brain, followed by troop dispositions and formations. I recollect the time spent studying warfare in all of its complicities in the depths of our fortress-monastery's Librarium. The tactics of the Imperium's finest generals as well as those that predate the Emperor's empire is remembered, roused from their rest in the depths of my remembrance. Such knowledge will aid me now.

"Are all what you say true? Is the tale of the Emperor and the Great Crusade real?" a tired voice breaks into my contemplations.

I glare down at the one who would be so impertinent in questioning the history of the Imperium. It is the same man who spat on my armor in the dungeon of these reformed Crusaders. He has somehow managed to elbow his way through the mass of warriors to reach me. A weathered, half bruised visage stares back at me, covered with beard stubble and utterly without fear. He looks to be about in his thirtieth season, his face wary and alert despite the torment he has so recently suffered through. A full patch of brown hair sits on his crown, coarse from many a month without washing. His body is bloodied and injured, but still displays the muscular form of a man who has spent a lifetime on the battlefield. A tattered tabard hangs limply from his neck, and I can barely make out the image of a sun on the frayed fabric.

"You dare think the words of an Iron Angel to be false? Blasphemy! I should have ordered Vishas to break you completely, Argent scum!" Whitemane spat spitefully at her former prisoner.

"I do not fear what you or your lackeys can do to me," the man speaks in a calm tone, surprising for what he has so recently been through, "As your own so-called angel has proclaimed; you are all deluded. You murder innocents and torture those unable to protect themselves! All the while ignoring your own blindness to the true tenets of the Light! I am not the blasphemer here! No! It is all of you!"

The entire grounds erupted into a roar of outrage. I find myself impressed with the man's bravery. To stand his ground against the fury of five hundred fanatics, recently converted no less, speaks volumes for his courage.

"You bastard---"

"Enough," I interrupt the High Inquisitor's sputter of rage, while spearing her source of hate with a firm glare, "I wish my tale was a lie. I wish humanity has suffered not the treachery of Horus. I wish the dark reality that I have described to you is false. But such a reality will not go away, no matter how one might wish it would. Strength is the acceptance of the truth, and we Astartes adhere to that precept more than any other."

"And the Emperor? Is he real as well? Can such a powerful being truly exist?"

My brow creases into a glowering frown.

"You may question the validity of my statements as much as you like. You may prod and pick at my answers to your heart's content. But you will NOT question the glory that is the Emperor."

All of them, including the former prisoner, take a step back at the vehemence of my last sentence. I ignore them and continue on.

"The Emperor was and still is the most powerful being in the universe. Even in his tormented state a top the Golden Throne, his power is unfathomable. His mind is the beacon of the Astronomican, a psychic aura of light that encompasses all in its radiance throughout the entire galaxy. It is only through the Emperor that the space ships of the Imperium can traverse the stars with safety. At the same time, his conscience is locked in a never-ending war with the four dread powers of Chaos, guarding our souls from their wicked clutches. His iron will is felt by a million worlds, and their inhabitants, whether they be sophisticated nobles of a hive city's upper levels or fur clad savages barely able to wield a lasgun. All bow in reverence to his might. His inexorable armies march to do battle in defense of mankind on thousands of worlds; the booming of cannons, the roaring of tanks, the drumbeat of millions of feet marching in unison, their heralds of approach. Even the Space Marines, the fabled Angels of Death, are but mere inconsequential specks compared to his power."

The man nods at this, seemingly satisfied. His eyes lock with mine. Once again I am impressed with the clarity and determination displayed within those shifting irises.

"What is to become of those recently freed then? Will they continue to suffer under the leash of your reformed Guard?"

"Do they worship the Light?"

"Yes. All of us do, despite the differences in how we show our faith," the man's words elicits a threatening snarl from Whitemane.

"Then no. The Light is simply another means of venerating the Immortal Emperor. Those who follow the Light will fall under my protection as Imperial citizens."

To my astonishment, the former prisoner promptly drops to one knee, bowing his head in accompaniment with the swift motion.

"I, Gyran Truthseeker, paladin of the Argent Dawn, hereby swear fealty to you, Iron Angel. I will be your shield in times of need, and your blade in times of war! I will be your sworn defender and your faithful bodyguard!"

I blink away my surprise, unmindful of the murmur of disapproval wafting from the assembled Guardsmen.

"Tell me… paladin. Why do you swear such devotion to me?"

"You say you will protect those who worship the Light. That is my duty as well. But the paladins of the Silver Hand have long been disbanded by Arthas, and those that remain are safely within the walls of Stormwind, unheedful of the cries for help that comes from their homeland. The Argent Dawn has many followers of the Light, but few who can match the strength and skill of Uther's Order. And the Scarlet Crusade. Well, you've seen for yourself the harm their zealotry can do."

"Our zealotry is the foundation of our faith! Who are you to criticize us?" Doan shouts in anger. The crowd of Crusaders roars in agreement, scowling hatefully at this Truthseeker.

"Silence. All of you," my commanding voice quells the imminent argument before it can begin, "While interesting words, you still have not explained why you would be so willing to prostrate yourself before me, Gyran."

"I do not bow my head to you. I do it for the people of Lordaeron. Many years they have felt the terrors of the Scourge, and recently the madness that is the Scarlet Crusade. My people have endured much. All because of a spoiled-brat prince who killed his own father and betrayed his kinsmen," the paladin notices my inquiring expression, "Yes, the story very much resembles your tale of the Emperor and the Arch-Traitor, Horus."

"Nothing can compare to the treachery that is the Horus Heresy, Truthseeker. You would do well to remember that fact," I admonish sternly.

"That may be so, but the similarity is there. In any case, I believe that it will be you who can bring a measure of relief to the peoples of Lordaeron. And I am willing to give my own life to ensure the safety of my people."

I consider the words of this paladin with interest. He is obviously less fervent than any one of the Scarlet Guardsmen, possessing of a cool-mind and a wealth of logic. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. A voice of reason would be highly welcome, especially here. Indeed, I would need such men at my side to present a credible threat to the forces of the Ruinous Powers on this planet.

"Very well, Gyran. I accept your request." I state solemnly.

The paladin inclines his head towards me one last time before standing back up, wincing in pain as the action forced cramped muscles unused for months to move. A faint mutter of disapproval sounds beside me. I look down to see Whitemane's face form to what can only be described as a childish sulk. Her red lips are puckered together, her chin tilted in a pouting manner.

"Is there something you wish to say, Inquisitor?"

"Well, I… I am just disappointed in your selection of close confidents, Iron Angel," she admits, her gaze drifting from me to Gyran and back tentatively.

"In what way?"

"The Argent Dawn are a group of traitors, my lord! None of their members can be trusted! They consort with nonhumans regularly and even willingly! Their ranks are filled with elves, cow-men, and even orcs!"

I glare at the paladin, my features turned downwards into a harsh scowl.

"Is this true? You would willingly accept xenos into your ranks?" I do not attempt to hide my disgust at the revelation.

Gyran refused to buckle under my scrutiny. He stares back at me, defiance written on his countenance.

"You think we allowed members of the Horde to join with open arms? If you do, then you are even more deluded than these Scarlet fools! Yes, the Argent Dawn does accept nonhumans. But we do so because we have no other choice! The Scourge is a never ending horde of foul monsters that replenish their numbers through the dead! Our dead! We cannot fight them effectively when our own population has been so ravaged by the Lich King! We would be fools to spurn aid when it is offered, no matter what race offers it! If being a traitor means fighting side by side with an orc against the legions of undead, then yes, I am a traitor! And damn proud of it too!"

Had I belonged to a more zealous chapter, my chainsword would have been already been stained red with this paladin's blood. If only this man knew of my thoughts, he would be thanking the Emperor profusely that I am a son of Corax, and not of the likes of Dorn or Guilliman.

"The blasphemy that is the xeno cannot be downplayed," my tone carries a degree of hesitation, "but it sometimes can be ignored, under certain circumstances."

"B-But my lord! We cannot allow this traitor so close to you!"

"We, Inquisitor?"

"Well… I mean 'I' but---"

"I sense there is a hidden agenda behind your complaints, Whitemane," I comment simply.

"N-No there isn't! I mean… Well, there is this one thing sire…" she stammers nervously, "I… I wish to be by your side as well!"

One of my brows arched high into a questioning look. The High Inquisitor blanches visibly at my expression.

"I didn't mean it like that! You are an Iron Angel, and such a thought is… is… is heresy!"

My other brow joins with the first.

"You were thinking of me?"

"Not in that sense, no! I swear by the Light! And by the Emperor! My thoughts are pure! I just want to be part of your inner circle! A close confidant as well! Please Iron Angel, reward me for my faith! I beseech you! I will always stand stalwartly by your side! I will go where you go!"

"There are some places where I go that you cannot, Inquisitor," I reply dryly.

I had the satisfaction of watching the leader of the Scarlet Crusade's face turn a deep shade of crimson.

"O-Of course not! I wouldn't think of it! Unless… unless you wanted me to!"

"I think what the High Inquisitor is trying to say is that she wants the same position as the Argent paladin," Doan interjects in an attempt to save his superior from further embarrassment.

"Is that true? You are unsatisfied with your current rank?"

She nods feverishly, her cheeks still bright red in color.

"Very well. As you have said, faith deserves to be rewarded. I have one rank in mind that would suit you very well, Whitemane."

The High Inquisitor's knees hit the stone floor as she mimics the paladin's earlier gesture of reverence.

"I thank you Iron Angel for your blessing! Grant me the sanction so that I may smite the foes of humanity in the Emperor's name!" I am faintly disturbed by the ecstasy apparent in her voice. Nonetheless, I continue forward with my plan of reforming these Crusaders into a cohesive fighting force.

"High Inquisitor no more. Rise Whitemane, Commissar of the Scarlet Guard."

* * *

Vareesa Suncharger had no concept of jealousy. Born and raised in a sheltered childhood in the gleaming, faultless city of Silvermoon, her youth was one of lustrous opulence. Her father was a magister of high rank, and his exalted position afforded both her mother and her a lifestyle of comfort. She had everything she needed and it was a simple matter of obtaining what she wanted. Her family had more than enough wealth to buy the various knick-knacks she so desired as a young girl.

Not much changed when she blossomed into the phase of adolescence. Still she would roam in the gloriously lit path of The Bazaar, her servants handling the many packages of expensive trinkets that had caught her fancy. Those that were too pricey for her funds to meet she would barter down with a flicker of her large, sensual eyes or the promise of a sweet, innocent smile. There was nothing on this world that she could not have.

Or so she thought.

The blood elf's keen eyes were riveted on the only nonhuman within the gathered mass of Scarlet Crusaders. She had no interest in the zealots. As they swore themselves to the giant, they also swore themselves to her service. Once she had seduced the god with the pleasures of her flesh, they would become hers to manipulate at will. Indeed, even as she and the others had halted in their footsteps to take in the bizarre scene in front of them, her gaze had shot towards the quel'dorei almost instantaneously. There was no recognition of kinship in that gaze, no realization of blood shared between two of the same species. It was a stare of utter hatred and loathing.

The high elf in question was dressed in an exotic robe of dark purple, the silken material flowing smoothly over her attractive frame. Her hair was a lighter shade of blonde than the rogue's, almost pure white in color. The quel'dorei's face was as flawless as her own, featuring two almond shaped eyes that shone with a cerulean haze. But that was where the similarities ended.

Vareesa had spent most of her adult life as a warrior of the shadows. Her work demanded she remain in top physical form constantly and without fail. The dangers of the path of a rogue were many and varied, but each was as life-threatening as the next. Her form showed the telltale signs of a life of hardship. Every muscle in her body, every curve and arc in her alluring figure was hard earned and hard won. She had honed herself into a weapon, just as deadly as the twin stiletto tipped daggers she was so fond of using.

The quel'dorei was a frail and weak looking thing compared to her, but Vareesa knew that weakness in women attracted men just the same as beauty.

As it stood, she was the most physically attractive of Avarian's impromptu group. The night elf had her own rugged exquisiteness to her credit, but it was a feral and uncivilized beauty that the giant would undoubtedly deem inferior to her own looks. The Dark Ranger also had a certain uniqueness about her, though it was half hidden beneath the veiled cloak she kept over her head. From the glimpses that the rogue had managed to catch, the Forsaken had managed to keep her appearance from falling into the decay death had in store for the deceased. Even then, the ranger was of little threat to her dominance over the attentions of the god.

The high elf would pose the first real challenge to her in capturing the iron giant's heart if she was allowed a place in their group.

Her chest beat rapidly, almost painfully. Jealousy was a notion new to her. It puzzled her that she could feel this strongly for something not within her reach. And she did not like it one bit.

She would need a way to rid the cancer before it grew. Prevent this new woman from entering the picture. She could simply sink one of her dirks into the elf's back when no one was looking. Or perhaps a drop of aptly applied poison?

A banshee shriek tore her from her thoughts. The Dark Ranger leapt past her, teeth bared balefully. In the undead elf's hands was a curved blade glinting with malice. Vareesa smiled serenely as the path of the Dark Ranger coincided with her own intended target.

She just loved it when situations detrimental to her solved themselves.

* * *

It was surprising how just how much the fates could turn on her. One minute she was fine and relatively content, fresh hope in her heart as she watched the man that had saved her preach to the Scarlet Crusade. The next moment she was on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs as a dark purple figure loomed over her with deadly intent.

Instructor Malicia had developed a dark sense of humor in the last twenty four hours. It was her way of coping with her new found freedom and the consequences of her past. As such, when the blur smashed her from her feet, instead of crying out in pain and panic, she had marveled at the back and forth transition that was her life balanced on a knife's edge.

Dazed and confused, she stared up uncertainly towards the face of her assailant. And gasped.

A pale mask of hatred greeted her gaze, features twisted into a baleful scowl. Otherworldly red eyes flashed with malevolence, gleaming with the promise of an agonizing death. But it was not the woman's visage the frightened her. It was because she knew who her attacker was. Memories of Scholomance's torturing chamber echoed dissonantly in her mind, reminiscences that she sincerely wanted to disappear. Theolen Krastinov. The Butcher. The high elf whimpered as she remembered the bloody experiments of the Doctor of House Barov in vivid detail. In particular she remembered the stricken form of a high elf, spitting defiance even as the breath of life escaped from her dried and cracked lips.

That same elf was now standing over her, teeth bared and a wicked looking scimitar poised downwards to strike.

"Long have I awaited for this day," her tormentor's voice was a hoarse whisper, "To have suffered so much at the hands of your Butcher. You are not him. But you are of his ilk. That is enough for me to kill you."

A sword flashed into view, the broad edge hewing towards her assailant.

"You will not harm the Iron Angel's servant, undead creature!"

The two Scarlet Champions who had accompanied her from the entrance to the monastery stood valiantly over her stunned form. The one with the sword raised his weapon again to strike, the other, armed with a warhammer, advanced in an attempt to blindside the cloak clad figure. For once, it was she being protected. A novel experience.

"I have no such servant."

Those words were like a verdict of damnation issued over her head.


	29. Courage Found in Strange Places

**Author's Note: To those who are wondering, yes, I do have a sequel in mind. But that won't be for a long time. I plan for this story to be from 150 to 200 chapters long, so no sequel for at least a good while. Also, as you have noticed, I haven't responded to any of the reviews for last chapter. This is not because I'm ignoring my faithful reviewers, mind you. I am just simply too tired (Finals and in the process of moving) this week to answer questions. I will do so to the best of my abilities in the next update. In the Emperor's name, gentlemen. **

Chapter 28

Chaos. The mon-keigh were a species that thrived in its essence. Their actions, whether done for their own pitiful ambitions or in service to their Corpse Emperor, continuously fueled the powers of the four Warp Gods. When they butchered each other in the millions on soon to be forgotten battlefields, they piled skulls in mountains for the Blood God. When they died, stricken with the ordeals of a short life, they gave power to the God of Pestilence. When they planned and schemed with their pathetic little minds, they fell into the clutches of the Changer of Ways. And when they mated uncontrollably like the dumb beasts they were, they sold their lives to She Who Thirsts. Their Imperium, the supposed glorious empire of their weakling seer, the supposed righteous realm of the good and noble, was the vast resource of souls that the Dark Deities found so delectable.

The Eldar had long realized their own relationship with the Warp and took steps to combat it. The humans paid no heed. Their clumsy spaceships traversed the universe, spreading the ugly taint of their existence, painfully unaware of the creatures that resided in the Empyrean, eager to feast on their flesh. Indeed, had not Eldrad Ulthuan, most powerful of the Eldar that walked the Path of the Seer, warned their foolish Emperor of Horus's imminent fall to the Ruinous Powers? The results were all too predictable. The Emperor dismissed the great Eldrad's advice and chose to overlook the obvious signs of his favored son's corruption. The subsequent Horus Heresy nearly tore the galaxy apart in the fires of war.

Some species were born stupid and without the necessary cognition to rise from the muck that spawned them. The humans were a race that possessed the same capabilities the Eldar did when they were young. Yet, they remained willfully blind throughout the long millennia while the favored of the universe mastered the stars to their command.

Kaitheil lowered his Long Rifle slowly and without sound. He was perched on top of the mon-keigh's poor excuse for a place of worship, resting on the tiled roof. It was a blocky and straight-angled structure of roughly-hewn stone that was displeasing to Eldar eyes. The Pathfinder did not need to worry about those below him noticing his presence. Humans were all too easily distracted for that. Indeed, it had taken only the arrival of four strangers to upset the ranks of the crimson clad Guardsmen.

The Ranger watched the scene unfolding before him with faint interest.

Soldiers armored in scarlet plate surrounded three nonhumans who had intruded on the mon-keigh's ceremony. Swords bared, they advanced in a slowly tightening circle around the beleaguered trio. Kaitheil's already sharp eyesight, further developed from centuries of treading the Path of the Outcast, roamed over the three. He focused on the slim form of a woman, tightly wrapped in black and red leather, the attire of some kind of assassin. A blonde ponytail flittered from the woman's head, swaying and bobbing as she twirled two lethal looking daggers in her hands to ward off the incoming human warriors. Her long, delicate ears twitched; an eerily likeness to the Eldar way of showing agitation.

The Pathfinder shook his head slightly. Farseer Yrlith had spoken of the race that resembled their own, the race known as the quel'dorei. This assassin fit her description exceedingly well… which was a disappointment. While this quel'dorei certainly bore some semblance to the Eldar, she was far from the perfection he had expected. Indeed, Kaitheil could point out over a dozen flaws on her body that would be deemed unattractive on the Craftworld with only a cursory glance. The only redeeming quality of this species was that their appearance was slightly more agreeable than those of the mon-keigh.

His practiced eyes drifted towards the Amazonian female next to the Eldar look-alike. This one's skin tone was an exotic purple, apparent from the gaps in the scale armor draped over her frame. Long blue hair cascaded down well below her taut shoulders, further amplifying the warrior woman atmosphere radiating from her battle stance. In her hands was a bow, poorly crafted by Kaitheil's standards, drawn fully back with an arrow notched and ready to loose. A futile, but valiant effort in resisting the crowd of humans hemming them in. The Ranger noted her features with a tinge of disgust. Though the quel'dorei left much to be desired in her looks, at least she could technically be considered somewhat alluring. This purple skinned amazon was simply too brutish looking to be considered anywhere near attractive. Especially those huge ears of hers.

To the front of these two awkward looking females was what appeared to be an ork, albeit less imposing in stature and more regimented in nature. The greenskin slammed its simple, yet no doubt deadly axe into its shield, bellowing out a deep throated challenge to the surrounding mon-keigh. As expected of its uncivilized species. Blackened armor covered its muscular form, an unsightly amalgamation of lamellar metal and fastened plates. An equally darkened helm with forward jutting horns hid its visage, with two curved tusks protruding from gaps in the faceplate. The Pathfinder was thankful that the ork wore such a crude head covering, lest he had to see its no doubt horrifyingly ugly face.

Kaitheil had tread the Path of the Outcast for many long centuries. Unlike the rest of his Ranger kin who would depart back to the Craftworld when their lust for adventure faded, he felt the continuous call of his Path. Each time he returned to his kind, he would grow restless and dour, knowing that there was still much to be explored in the vastness of the cosmos. In these long centuries he had seen many sights, both extraordinary and horrifying, been in the employ of many species, both dull and enlightened. His experiences led him to the same conclusion he had reached when he took his first steps away from Iybraesil; the Eldar were the perfect beings, a nugget of flawlessness surrounded by a tide of lower and debased creatures. The races he had encountered so far on this world of Azeroth only served to support this fact.

His gloved hands ghosted delicately over the intricate workings of his Long Rifle. It was a sniper's ideal weapon, the gravitic accelerators embedded in its elegant body removing all semblance of recoil and rendering it completely silent when operated. Crafted from delicate yet sturdy wraithbone, it was superior in every way compared to the bulky and unwieldy rifles used by the mon-keigh. Kaitheil's hand halted over the myriad of dangling trinkets fastened to his weapon's belly. A tooth from a tyranid Hive Tyrant, a tuft of fur from an alpha rhinodon, the spent shell casing from a Vindicare Assassin. These were trophies from enemies worthy of feeling the kiss of his rifle.

Perhaps he would add another trophy to his collection this day?

He cast the thought away from his mind almost instantly. Yrlith had been most unyielding in her orders, and though he possessed a streak of independence not usually found in his Craftworld kin, he would follow them to the letter.

His gaze roamed to the Space Marine the Farseer had been so adamant about.

Clad in an immense suit of power armor, the Marine in question bore no livery to speak of; a strange sight considering the rest of his brethren Kaitheil had encountered proudly displayed unsophisticated symbols on their ridiculously oversized pauldrons. He stood firm and commanding on the top steps leading to the human cathedral, his countenance a mask of displeasure. The Ranger could see why. His newly recruited soldiers had broken ranks immediately at the sight of the four nonhumans, roaring praises to the "Light" and the "Emperor" as they surged forward in a valiant attempt to overwhelm the opposition with sheer numbers. A tactic that seemed to be a favorite among the mon-keigh. The lack of discipline both he and the Space Marine had just witnessed was unheard of in even the most poorly trained of the Imperium's Imperial Guard.

He almost felt for the Marine's frustration. Almost.

Mankind as a species was like a plague on the galaxy that needed to be cured. However, there were some elements in this primitive and backwards race that were worthy to lick the stains from Eldar boots. The Space Marines were one of such category. While normal humans lead confused and disordered lives, changing their Paths as one would change a garment, the weakling Imperium's finest warriors did not. They stalked the Path of the Warrior as stringently as any servant of the Phoenix Lord's Aspects, and one could argue they were lost on their Path in the same way as an Exarch. Even the most arrogant of Isha's children knew that to underestimate the martial might of the mon-keigh Space Marines led to a quick road of disaster. The Ava-Nile and Biel-Tan learnt of this the hard way in their recent conflicts with the humans for possession of their Sceptre of Galaxian. Such a horrendous defeat against so insignificant a foe marred the reputation of both Craftworlds, and many of their warriors spent long hours of meditation in the shrines of their respective Aspects to atone for the loss of face.

The Iybraesil also had quarrels with the mon-keigh, but these were a pitiful few compared to the constant battles the more war-inclined Craftworlds waged against the humans. The Farseers of Iybraesil, Yrlith among them, were wise enough to realize that continued warfare against a far numerically superior enemy would only bring a hastened decay to the Eldar and in the end, utter destruction. Mankind was indeed a pestilence, but it was a disease that could not yet be treated.

"ENOUGH!!!"

The Space Marine's bombastic roar drove the Ranger from his thoughts. Kaitheil frowned faintly in displeasure. Even in their attempts to garner attention, the mon-keigh were still primitive and crude in their ways.

Some of the Guardsmen heeded the voice, halting in their tracks to gaze uncertainly back at the source of the order. Most did not, and continued their assault against the trio backed into a corner.

The massive, hideous gun gripped in the Marine's fist rose towards the air. If shouting did not work, then a louder sound would suffice. A typical example of human brutishness.

With a start, the Pathfinder realized the blackened barrels of the bulky weapon, evidence of recent discharge, was pointing distinctly in his direction. The yawning maw of the gun met his glare, and in that one instant, Kaitheil felt panic. The barrel flared a bright orange and the Ranger flung himself backwards to avoid the incoming shell. Just in time. Mon-keigh bullets were as revoltingly simple as their users, but were nonetheless lethally effective. Where he had rested a second ago was a smoking crater fully three hand spans across.

Too close for comfort. Too close to be a coincidence. The Space Marine knew.

From his new perch a good distance back from his old position, under a hood of well-woven material, Kaitheil's face crept into an indulgent smirk.

Yrlith had chosen well, this pawn of the Eldar.

* * *

The thundering boom rang agonizingly in her ears.

Her shivering form, still stretched on the courtyard floor, halted in its apprehensive convulsions. The two Scarlet Champions, her erstwhile executioners, stopped their threatening advance towards her prone frame and gawked visibly at the sound's source. The undead so intent on ending her life turned a hesitant eye in the direction of the noise, clearly unwilling to let her quarry escape her notice for even a second. Their actions and hers were being repeated all over the grounds.

The myriad of former Crusaders, now members of the Iron Angel's Scarlet Guard, craned their necks towards the direction of the malevolent blast. And then sincerely wished they hadn't.

The giant lowered his still smoking gun, terrible rage smeared over his alabaster visage.

"Discipline. There is a painful lack of it here," he all but snarled.

The angel turned to the white-haired Inquisitor next to him, who had clasped both hands over her ears to shut out the discordant sound.

"Whitemane. With your acceptance of your new rank comes responsibility. You are this regiment's Commissar. You hold the power of life and death over these troops. Next time such a breach in regulation occurs, I will expect for you to carry out a summary execution or a punishment of likewise severity."

The newly-appointed Commissar opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, clearly having rethought what she was about to say. The faces of her warriors were of the same shocked caliber, betraying both fear and trepidation at the solemnity of the angel's words. The giant's icy stare swept from the former Inquisitor and pierced all of them in turn with its coldness. Then those blue irises settled on her.

Malicia whimpered.

The Iron Angel strode menacingly from his position a top the stairs of the cathedral's entrance, steps heavy and forbidding. The two Crusaders on either side of her quickly hastened to remove themselves from his path, their killing mood temporarily forgotten. Even the undead looming over her took a step back, alarm in the elf's gleaming red eyes. The quel'dorei scrabbled back at the giant's approach, looking desperately for an avenue of escape. None existed. She had enough time for one more whimper before a massive black gauntlet wrapped itself around her neck.

She felt her feet leave the ground as the plated hand lifted her upwards. She struggled desperately with the sense of dread that threatened to overcome her already panicking mind. The high elf winced as her dangling frame was brought to face level with the Iron Angel. Azure eyes met her own light blue pupils in a staring match she knew she could never win. The man's pale features were twisted into a baleful scowl.

"You are the xeno I encountered in the tainted forest," Malicia recoiled at the deafening tone, made worse by the proximity of the source.

"Yes…" she gasped, feeling the thick armored fingers tighten around her windpipe.

"You have the audacity to declare yourself as a servant to an Astartes? Wretch! A chapter's serfs are all neophytes who did not make it through the trials to become a Space Marine. Though they have failed, their valor and courage are exemplary. You hold no comparison to them!"

"No… I do not…" she whispered sadly.

"Why are you here on these sacred grounds?" the giant ignored her despondence and continued with his interrogation.

"I… I followed you… hope… redeem myself…"

"Redeem? You are xenos. Your ilk does not deserve the Emperor's forgiveness."

"N-No… I… guilty of… sins… want… to… make sure… Lich King… never harm anyone… again," her voice had been reduced to a hoarse murmur, her throat slowly being devoid of air in the giant's unyielding grasp.

"Lying bitch! You are Scourge! I have not forgotten your face in the Butcher's chamber of torments! My suffering will pale in comparison to what I have in plan for you!" the undead's hissing tenor grated from behind her, filled with barely-contained malice and the thirst for bloody revenge.

"Silence foul creature!" Whitemane had gotten over her momentary lapse into silence, her statements directed at Malicia's no longer living tormentor, "You are one of Arthas's heathen servants as well! In the Emperor's name and by the Light I will end your blasphemous existence!"

A chorus of assents issued from the former Crusaders still surrounding the other three strangers, fully agreeing with their leader's statements.

"You Scarlet idiots are all the alike. Can't tell the difference between those infected with the plague and those who aren't. I would not expect you to realize that the Forsaken are sworn enemies of the Scourge," the cloaked figure spread her arms wide in a mocking gesture.

"Undead are all of the same filthy kind! It does not matter if they choose a different name to live by! They will be cleansed all the same!" the Commissar spat.

"Thank you for proving my assertion correct," a rictus leer appeared on the undead elf's pale countenance.

"You sanctimonious scum!" Whitemane took a step towards the grinning Forsaken, her staff raised in an aggressive manner.

Malicia thrashed feebly in the angel's grip, her breath coming out in ragged pants. If the giant did not release her soon, she would choke to death. Her eyes shot hopefully towards him, begging to be freed, only to be disappointed. The Iron Angel was paying no heed to her struggles, and instead was focused on the ensuing argument before him.

"Halt, Scarlet," the Argent paladin, the one called Gyran Truthseeker spoke, "the undead of the Forsaken are of different quality than the evil that is the Scourge."

The former Inquisitor spun on her heel, disbelief and anger etched on her youthful features.

"Even after you have sworn to serve the Iron Angel do you continue to spout your fanciful lies!" she retorted sardonically, "Get this through your thick skull paladin! There. Is. No. Such. Thing. As. Good. Undead."

"No? Then what about Sir Barthalomew the Revered? What about those Forsaken who aid us at the Bulwark? The world isn't all black and white, Crusader, and you would do well to remember that fact," replied Gyran stoically.

"There is no grey area in dealing with those who have fallen to the Lich King's plague! Extermination is what they deserve and what they'll get! You Argent fools lack the spine to properly cleanse the lands of Lordaeron of the undead! It is only through our blessed efforts that there are still some regions safe from the Scourge taint!"

"What you call 'blessed' I say murder. The blood of innocents stains your hands, and even the Iron Angel's Emperor will be loathe to forgive your crimes!"

"SILENCE!!!" the booming roar almost deafened Malicia, though that was the least of her worries. Her cheeks had turned an unhealthy tinge of blue, the product of a slow asphyxiation. Strangled gasps escaped from her lips, but if the angel noticed, he gave no sign.

"I will not tolerate such discord among human ranks!" a scathing growl broke upon the giant's features, "Xenos can be expected turn on one another for that is their perfidious nature, but mankind is a race that is honorable and above such petty things. Only traitors and heretics are more craven than the alien and that is because they have been touched with the corruption of Chaos. There will be no more arguments over faith under my watch. All are equal under the The Golden Throne's gaze. Is that clear?"

Whitemane nodded reluctantly, her hateful glare never fully leaving the Argent paladin. The Iron Angel turned his head to regard the Argent templar, an uncaring hand still holding a struggling Malicia in midair.

"As for you Gyran, your words border on the line of heresy. The Emperor is yours to venerate just as he is mine. Speak falsely of Him again, and there _will_ be blood stained on one's hands. Your blood on my hands."

The paladin nodded dutifully, but the smoldering fury in his eyes told that the quarrel was far from over. An eerie silence followed, one that the high elf was eager to take advantage of.

"I… can help…" Malicia wheezed desperately, her cries sounding piteous and miserable even to her own ears.

The giant's attention fastened to her frail frame like a hawk having found a wounded rabbit.

"Help? What can a foul xeno such as you do to help?"

"I… formerly Scourge… yes that is true… but I am… no longer," her voice carried the desperation she felt, "Lich King is gone… from my head… but knowledge is not…"

"Knowledge of what? If this is a trick then your death will be swift and merciless."

"No! Not… a trick. S-Scourge… I can give you… location of their… strongholds. Their numbers… and their plans. How to… enter… Scholomance."

The angel's glare speared into her, his cerulean eyes searching for any sign of deception. There was none to be found. She was too tired to lie, too exhausted to mislead. Her vision swam in blurs, blots of discolor bursting into her periphery. The lack of oxygen entering her lungs was having its deadly effects at last.

And then abruptly the giant let go. With nothing to support her weight, Malicia fell heavily with a startled cry. The impact with ground jarred her rump painfully, but it was offset by her now unconstricted windpipe. She greedily sucked in copious amounts of air, savoring the taste and feel that had been denied from her for the past few minutes. Tears threatened to streak down the high elf's cheeks as she realized just how close to death's embrace she had been.

The Iron Angel watched impassively as she coughed and sputtered on the grass. His face was as hard as rock and his tone carried the same rough edges.

"I sense no deceit in you, xeno. However, that does not mean you are to be trusted. You are an aberration to humanity, and you affiliation with an enemy of mankind only adds to your sins. By all rights, you do not deserve the redemption you so desperately seek. But the Emperor is a magnanimous Lord, and he is willing to exonerate. Know that when your usefulness has ended, I will grant you the deliverance you crave at the barrel of my boltgun."

"And that is all I ask for," she murmured in response, "To see the same pain I have inflicted on others appear on those I once served. I will die regretless then."

"Indeed."

Was that a glimmer of respect in the giant's voice she just heard, or was she just still in the throes of delirium?

* * *

Keina marveled at the metal god's approach. Marveled that even after her journeys with him, even after her battles with him, she still felt the same unease that filled her body in their first meeting. The scowl of irritation spread across his features did not help state of trepidation. Each step he took towards them further amplified his massive frame, and frankly, was very intimidating.

Avarian halted not three feet in front of them, his towering height casting an impeccable shadow over the left most of their group. The blood elf.

"Xenos. I find your presence here on the sacred grounds of the Emperor to be both repulsive and unwelcome. Explain to me your transgression, and I will be lenient on your punishments," the kaldorei was aghast at his words. Transgression? Punishment? What had they done but to search for him out of worry?

And judging from Vareesa's shocked face; she too did not expect the giant to behave in such a manner.

"My lord? We have committed no wrong in your presence. We acted out of concern for you, and---" the sin'dorei's placating tone was cut short by the god's own deep voice.

"I do not need your concern. As expected of races not human, your actions are governed by the weakness that is compassion."

"The Horde is not weak. We are as strong as the crashing tide. Unbreakable as a craggy mountain. But such strength comes from our loyalty to each other and the honor that binds us all," this time it was the orc who spoke, years of wisdom hard earned on the battlefield apparent in his speech.

"Loyalty? Honor? In xenos? A laughable statement. Especially amongst you greenskins. I have seen the brutal slaughter your ilk have inflicted upon the good citizens of the Imperium. Seen the savage lust for carnage still evident in the eyes of your kin even as I slew them at Pallonia, Halkir, and a dozen more worlds," Avarian's face had contorted into a feral snarl of hate, devoid of any semblance of the noble yet taciturn giant Keina had seen in Darnassus.

"There are more felbloods on other worlds as well?" Karduk grunted in surprise, "Does the damnable Burning Legion have their corrupted tendrils stretched out that far?"

"You would push your crimes onto another? I would expect no less from cowardly xenos," the god glowered.

"Never! The drinking of Mannoroth's cursed blood was done willfully by us! We know of the bloodshed we inflicted on the innocent, and not a day goes by that we don't regret it! Thrall has retaught us the meaning of honor, the tenet we all but lost when we were but mere slaves to the Legion! And as I am sworn to the New Horde, I am sworn to you, great warrior! My honor is my life, and I will follow you to whatever end!"

The orc smashed a plated fist into his black cuirass, bellowing out a fierce war cry as he did so.

Avarian shook his head, the look of hate never once having drifted from his countenance.

"Lies and deceit! Only humanity possesses honor! Xenos and aliens have no grasp of it! Like the scum they are, they merit nothing more than to be tread upon by the iron heel of man!"

She snapped. Perhaps she was still irate over the god abandoning her to the Horde at the throne room of the Undercity. Perhaps she was still grieving for the spirits in the forests of Tirisfal. Perhaps she did not know where this man's true intentions lay, whether he had any interest in her. Or perhaps it was a culmination of all three.

Keina Stormsong stepped forward, pulled back an arm, and punched the giant squarely in the chest.

Against an opponent her size, the strength of her blow would have knocked him on his rump. Against an opponent who stood a good two heads taller than her whilst clad in some form of impervious metal, the result was understandably less effective.

She felt the bones in her fist crack. A surge of pain jolted down the length of her arm. Her fury allowed her to ignore it.

"How dare you! You… you arrogant, conceited arsehole! You would be so willing to disparage us, yet you do not even begin to understand us! Long before your Emperor and his Great Crusade, we kaldorei have walked this world in peace and harmony! And when the Burning Legion came to consume us all, we stood and fought for this world, shedding blood for every inch of land lost to their clutches! Our people sacrificed much to stave off the demonic assault; lives destroyed, homes wrecked, entire cities lost to the Legion's murderous advance! Just like your Imperium, we prevailed in the end against those who would try to destroy us!"

Avarian seemed surprise at her outburst, but his next words carried the same scornful tone.

"You would compare your own pitiful kingdom to the Imperium? Fool. Your kind's suffering pales in comparison to humanity's."

"Is that how you measure the disparity between powers? Suffering? Is your Imperium stronger because more people suffer? What does it matter how many more are tormented? How can you compare pain like this, when you should be destroying the source of it? For all your boasts and tales, you never achieve! You never do! You are so willing to spite us, so willing to criticize, when we have stood defiant for ten thousand years against our foes! When we have fought and bled for our lands!" she cried out passionately.

"And that is what we do! The Angels of Death are the harbingers of the Emperor's Wrath! A million worlds we safeguard from the likes of you! Countless wars waged against the enemies of mankind!" countered the giant hotly.

"And does that not represent the similarities between us? For every battle you have won, I can name another we have fought on the grounds of Azeroth! For every foe you have slain, I can count another we have sent back to the Twisting Nether! For every warrior you have lost, I can recall another whose tattered body would never again stand with his friends and family! The very ground you stand on has been sanctified by the sacrifice of the inhabitants on this world, whether it be one of your race or another! Dwarves, gnomes, humans and elves have all fallen in defense for those they love and the world they wish to protect! Is that not the same for your empire? Do not humans of the Imperium forfeit their own lives to protect the lives of others? Are we so different on the outside, Lord Avarian, that you cannot see the same fire that beats within our breasts?"

The god did not answer.

"You call me xeno! I tell you now that I am not! You cannot classify me on a whim, and cast a degrading title on my kind! I am not a human, yes, but I am a soldier of the Alliance! I am a sentinel, and though my calling is in night elf lands, I would willingly give my life to defend an innocent, whether they be elf or human, dwarf or gnome! Can you say the same for yourself? Can your Imperium compare to the selfless sacrifice of the Alliance's sons and daughters?"

Her breath came out in ragged pants, tired from her tirade. With her exhaustion came rational thought and a sinking feeling in her stomach at what she had just done. The man she had just ranted against was the same man who had butchered the satyrs in droves at Astranaar. The same man who had ventured into the murky gloom of Blackfathom Deeps and emerged triumphant. The same man who slew the demons of the Burning Legion in droves in the Undercity. She was utterly outclassed by him.

Keina winced as the giant raised an arm almost as thick as her waist into the air to strike. At least her death would not be as slow and painful as the end that almost befell the Scourge elf.

"Chaplain Targon once told me that xenos could never match the holy traits left by the Emperor on humanity," Avarian's massive hand landed lightly on her shoulder, causing her entire body to sag with the additional weight, "Courage. Determination. The will to succeed, among others. If only he was with me now… What you have said would have changed his opinions greatly."

That black plated hand tightened reassuringly.

"You have these traits, Keina. I do not know if it is only you who possess them or the rest of your race as well. But it is welcome here, nevertheless," the god nodded respectfully.

Before she could realize just what had transpired, Avarian had already turned on his heel to address the Scarlet Crusaders.

"Commissar Whitemane!" he barked.

"Here, my lord!" the former Inquisitor snapped to attention.

"Send your finest preachers on the fastest horses to any who are allied with us in this region. Have them tell the tale of the Emperor as I have told all of you. Spread the Imperial Faith, and have those who are willing to accept the Emperor gather at the Bulwark."

"The Bulwark my lord? But it is in the hands of the Argent Dawn!"

"Indeed it is. Gyran Truthseeker, this is where you will play your part."

The paladin bowed his head low.

"Your orders, Iron Angel."

"I assume you are of some influence within the ranks of the Argent Dawn. Go and recruit those who are willing to join us in our war against the Scourge and Chaos."

"You will find no shortage of volunteers."

"Arcanist Doan!"

A bald-headed mage straightened visibly, clacking his steel staff against the ground.

"My lord!"

"Gather your adepts. I want to know what each and every one of them is capable of in two hours. Then I will decide on how to utilize them."

"At once great angel!"

"If I may my liege," Whitemane interjected.

"Speak."

"Our forces are spread out all across Tirisfal, but they cannot gather without the risk of attack from the undead. What should we do about that?"

"I can offer a remedy to that," the hoarse voice belonged to Cyndia, the Dark Ranger, "Mistress Sylvanas will be most eager to assist your efforts against the Scourge, great one. The Forsaken will cease all our conflicts against the Scarlet Crusade as well as help those who are besieged by the servants of Arthas. I ask only that you accompany me back to the Undercity to cement our new alliance."

Avarian regarded the undead elf with interest, his stare keen and searching.

"No my lord! The undead are not to be trusted! It might be a trap! We could not live without your guidance!" the Commissar's desperate cry rent the air, followed by worried murmurs of assent from her followers.

"It will be a sad day indeed for the Imperium when an Astartes fears such a trivial thing as an ambush," the god replied confidently, "I will go. And I will bode no disagreements."

The giant's gaze encompassed all in its sternness.

"Rest well tonight, my Guardsmen, for tomorrow we will wage glorious war in the Emperor's name."


	30. Words of Temptation

_StGene & Aprion: Thank you!_

_N.L. Cire: There won't be a waterfall. It will be a slow trickle at best. Ten thousand years of ingrained hatred won't simply disappear. Avarian will still be uneasy around the nonhuman denizens of Azeroth even at the end of the story._

_Loatroll & Knives91: Thanks!_

_Leafy8765: Avarian has won over only five hundred soldiers. Perhaps more in the future. The sorcerer is attempting to control a city of two hundred fifty thousand. Of course Avarian is going to have it easy in comparison. _

_ArcherReborn2: The thing with the Eldar is that they're really, really hard to catch. Fluffwise, they pretty much control all aspects of a fight, striking from every direction and what not. Then they'll disappear in their webways with no loss. Generally a pain in the arse to deal with. In the case of Avarian, he simply sees no reason to pursue a wretched xeno when he has far more important tasks at hand._

_Word Bearer: And not only that, in the Space Marine Codex, we see the Ultramarines allowing for the Tau to evacuate when the world they were fighting on turns out to be a Necron Tomb World. _

_Kocur: Most likely in the next chapter._

_Vashanti: Thanks!_

_Emperor Chronicler: Heh, the Ranger won't be dying anytime soon. He will have parts to play in this fic. Scholomance will be in later chapters!_

_Soulless Reader: Well, Eldrad is kind of a dick… heh, I kid. And from any Eldar's viewpoint, no matter what sins they may have committed, they would still think they're superior than humans._

_MEleeSmasher: Eh, he won't be getting any help soon in terms of Astartes, besides the dreadnought of course. As for the scenario, if one were to occur, it would happen very likely at the end of this story._

_Todeswind: Thank you! The numerous traits of a Space Marine will be portrayed in this fic. I also know of the vulnerabilities within power armor, and they too will be correctly portrayed._

_Lunatic Pandora1: The Eldar and the elves of Warcraft are separate races. So while they may resemble each other, they are different from each other._

_Uzumaki-barrage: The Eldar are very, very proud beings. They won't admit to their faults and would gladly insult others for theirs. They are the elves of 40k, after all. :P_

_Dumbledore is Gay: Thanks!_

_InboxPie: Medivh will have a small part to play, but it won't have a very large effect on the plot._

_Xynth: Meh, all Space Marine are arseholes. They kill entire populations for worshiping different gods, kidnap children from their parents to make them into more Space Marines, and generally are arrogant prickheads. Of course, that is our view of them. To the people of the Imperium, they are the shining beacons of light in a galaxy of darkness. It's just a matter of viewpoints, my friend._

_Cheek: Scarlet Crusaders ARE unstable. They are utterly devoted to their religion, and will kill anyone not wearing the banner of the Crusade. Heck, even today, we see religion still playing a large role in our world, with Christianity and Islam and whatnot. Good preachers in any faith can make their audience weep in sadness or cry out in joy. It stands to reason that a Space Marine, genetically engineered by the Emperor to be a leader amongst normal men, would be incredibly good at using the emotions of the Crusaders to his/the Imperium's benefit._

_Pinto: Space Marines respect courage and valor. It took a lot of courage to stand up to a nine foot tall, acid-spitting, warrior who could literally wrench off your head without a sweat. Avarian respects that courage. I see no problem with this._

_Mattrocks & Peanuckle: Thanks!_

_Gforce member45: The harem isn't something I'm purposely doing. It just happens that a lot of Avarian's companions are female. Now, I'm not denying that some of them will lust after him, indeed, some will attempt to get his attention, and in rather lewd ways at that. However, the purging of heretics will always take place above romance. :P_

_Overdrive1: The Emperor guides my hand today then, brother!_

_Timewatch: Indeed._

_Harbinger Delta: All Space Marines are arrogant. Some more than others. Believe it or not, Avarian is one of the least conceited. _

_Akira Stridder: Probably. It will depend on how fast I update. :P_

_Folklore zombie: The Eldar will have quite a few interactions with our hero, you can be sure of that._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: If I can elicit such a strong response from my readers, then I have done well my duty as an author! :P_

_Ranger24: Northrend won't be for a while. Andorhal, most likely._

_Will of the Emperor: An Astartes will not have fallen to Chaos unless he starts worshipping the Dark Gods. Avarian has done none of that. He is merely doing what he believes is right for the Imperium. And he is not moved by the speech by any means. He just thinks Keina has a lot of guts._

_Huitt1989: Thanks!_

Chapter 29

The sword was a silvery blur to mortal eyes. It flashed brightly as it descended in a killing stroke, the air whistling with its approach. Propelled by hardened muscles and the skills of a proficient swordsman, it was a blow that should have brought bloody ruin to wherever it was aimed and whoever was unfortunate or unlucky enough to receive its attention. Azechral the Twisted, High Warp Priest of the Word Bearers, Herald of A Thousand Woes, was neither unfortunate nor unlucky. To him, the incoming sword could not have moved slower, even if its owner had wished. He was too used to fighting warriors who could react faster than an eye-blink, who could punch a hole through the armor of a tank, who could tear men asunder with their bare hands. He was too used to fighting Astartes. With a deft flick of his wrist, the sorcerer turned aside the blade easily, the haft of his Bedlam Staff forcing away the keen edge meant for him.

The dwarf shook off his astonishment with an angry bellow, lifting his weapon once more to do battle. Azechral sighed as the squat figure clad in plate leapt towards him, surprisingly agile for its physique, and brought the double-edged, serrated broadsword in a furious descent towards his horned helm. The intent was clear. To cave his skull in with sheer force and power. A brutish and rather unsavory tactic. Such an attack would have worked, should have worked if it were any normal man beneath any regular suit of armor. Unfortunately for the dwarf, no such being existed beneath the archaic ceramite that was the sorcerer's protection. Azechral inclined his head, allowing for the short warrior a free strike. The Word Bearer's rune-etched faceplate met the glowing blue blade with an ear-splitting clang.

The sorcerer chuckled at his opponent's cry of bewilderment as the magically enchanted weapon bounced from his helmet with nary a dent or scratch. Ceramite was a material of stern and unyielding make. Ceramite having endured the turmoil within the Eye of Terror for ten thousand years, even more so. The various pentagrams of Chaos Undivided engraved in his armor only added to his suit's durability and resilience. The gifts to him from the Dark Gods had been many, and the unholy Warp creatures inhabiting the foul sigils, shielding his mortal self from all but the most powerful of blows, were but just one in that many.

He was nearly impervious, but that could not be said for his opponent. The dwarf screamed as a word from the sorcerer set his stocky body alight in a blazing conflagration of daemonic fire. The full plate panoply, complete with an intimidating headpiece, did little to shelter its hapless wearer. The pinkish flames licked hungrily at its victim, scorching skin and tissue into an unrecognizable mess. Metal warped and disfigured as the Warp fire danced merrily, fusing with the flesh of its owner in hissing plumes of steam.

Azechral turned away from the slowly sagging amalgamation of tortured meat and melting plate, soon to be completely consumed by the unholy blaze. His foe's agonizing wails could still be heard, but that would soon be gone as well. Daemons were always in need of fresh souls to devour, always seeking more prey for their insatiable appetite. The warp flames were but one facet of the daemonic, and hence shared the same innate craving of their kin.

He had already killed five out of ten. The dwarf added to his count and made it six. Which meant four more souls soon to be dragged into the Warp.

_"No! No! You lie! Jaina would never betray me! She is my most valued counselor! If she is as debased as you claim, then she would have already turned traitor!"_ the voice of Stormwind's king cried out defiantly in his mind.

The Word Bearer shook his head impatiently. This one was proving to be a nuisance to influence. The psychic link that allowed him to communicate with the feudal regent was a tenuous one at best, made worse by this world's innate resistance to the Empyrean. Already he had sacrificed his last psyker to establish the connection, the very one that allowed him to communicate with Kor Phaeron a few days earlier.

_"My liege," _Azechral whispered soothingly, reaching out with his conscience to bend the reluctant king to his will, _"You are a wise and intelligent man. Yet, you seem to remain willfully blind to the schemes of your close confidants. They would twist and turn you to their own benighted goals, until you are nothing but a mere puppet whose strings are constantly being plucked by their hands."_

The remaining four surrounded him at a distance, circling warily like hunters who had cornered a vast and dangerous beast. The sorcerer sneered. If they were possessing of any brain matter in their pitiful intellects, they would already be running. Not that would help in any way. He would hunt them down all the same.

_"How would you know this? You are a voice in my head, telling me these things but with nothing to show as proof! There is no substance in your claims! No evidence of wrong doing in the actions of my counselors! You say to me that their ways are treasonous, but you have not shown me who you are and where your intentions lie! A man who hides when he presents his words is a man who is not to be trusted!"_

The king resisted. So did everyone in the beginning. But in the end they would all fall under the sway of Chaos. Such things were inevitable.

_"Ahhh, but Lord Varian, you have dealt with such perfidious beings before. Did not Onyxia, broodmother of the Black Dragonflight, once control the entirety of Stormwind? Did not this vile beast, this Katrana Prestor the nobles of your city called her, once played your son to her whims like a musician to an instrument? Many of your people lie dead in towns long forgotten, dead due to the aid she refused to send. She controlled Bolvar Fordragon, the hero you hold so high in esteem, with dark sorceries and foul magics. The Alliance was at the point of splintering, all because of the machinations of one that was supposedly loyal. You would have this happen again, while under your watch, King Wrynn?"_

The psychic backlash from his target's shout of hatred nearly deafened the sorcerer.

_"NEVER! I WILL NEVER ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN! MY PEOPLE HAVE SUFFERED TOO MUCH ALREADY! I WILL NOT LET THE LIKES OF ONYXIA HAVE SWAY IN MY CITY AGAIN! NOT WHEN I AM STILL ALIVE AND BREATHING!"_

The Ruinous Powers played on the extremes of emotion. The ruler of Stormwind had an innate fear of tragedy befalling his people, and fear, whether well placed or not, was one such extreme. That left him vulnerable and exposed to the honeyed words of persuasion the Word Bearers Legion was so fond of utilizing.

"_You see, lord? You cannot completely trust your advisors without risking your crown and the well-being of your populace. You must tread carefully with treason so near your doorstep. And that is why I have come to you, Lord Wyrnn. To offer a way you can solve your predicament, as well as emerge victorious over the Horde."_

One of the four, possessing of ridiculously long ears and whose features were concealed from view by a skull mask of some form of purplish metal, edged stealthily towards Azechral's flank, fully intent on blindsiding the Chaos Space Marine. A laughable and ultimately futile action, especially considering the autosensors built into the sorcerer's runic helm as well as the lesser daemons inhabiting his power armor told him exactly where the figure would assault from.

"_And how will you succeed where many of my counselors have failed?"_ Varian's tone betrayed skepticism, but that could be overcome as well.

"_I am not so crude and manipulative as your advisors, my king. Whilst they direct you towards their own whimsical purposes, I simply present four paths you can take. Each path is laced with glory and victory. Each path can fulfill your most fervent desires, whether they be the well-being of your people or something of the more… primal sort."_

"_What are these paths you speak of?"_

The leather clad figure dashed forward, two thin swords weaving in intricate patterns as they danced towards his seemingly unprotected rear. Azechral pivoted on his heel swiftly, a smooth motion that belied his hulking ceramite covered form. The Bedlam Staff stabbed towards his attacker at blinding speed, the twin pronged blades that were the end of the stave neatly impaling the charging assassin. The stricken being gave vent to a cry of pain as the stiletto tips punctured his wiry frame and drove outwards from its back in an explosion of blood. The cry increased in pitch and volume as the sorcerer slowly lifted its spasming body from the ground, the Warp power inducing weapon holding it in midair. The Word Bearer licked his lips.

"_The first is the one most suited for you sire. It is a road filled with strength and vigor. It is the way of Khorne, the mighty god of martial valor. He sits a top a throne of skulls, the heads of enemies taken honorably on the field of battle. His followers are many and diverse, each the embodiment of the noble warrior. With his blessing, your sword arm will never tire. Your armies will vanquish the foe and destroy them utterly on a thousand war scarred grounds. Your enemies will fear you for the devastation you can unleash with but an order. Your people will love you for the security your power can provide. After all, Khorne is also a protector of the weak as well as a deity of war."_

Ichor flowed freely along the shaft of his psychic conduit, trapped within the elaborate carvings embedded in the staff. Not a drop of blood was allowed to fall wasted on the undeserving ground. The sorcerer watched in elation as his weapon slowly collected the valuable life essence; ravening tooth-filled maws materializing on his stave by the dozen to drink deep the crimson fluid. He had done this many times. Too many to count.

Blood for the Blood God indeed.

A blazing fireball hammered into his chest, followed in quick succession by a writhing bolt of dark purple energy. The first did next to nothing. Power armor could withstand the murderous heat of burning promethium, no less a suit blessed with the gifts from the Dark Gods. This concocted sphere of elemental fire was a laughable affront to his daemonic protection. The second was more effective than the first. It caused him to stagger. He felt the agony coursing through his body, felt the red hot sensation of a thousand daggers slicing into his flesh. He enjoyed it. Shadow magics were known to cause exquisite pain to their victims. They were of little use against a man who had sold his soul to the very deities of suffering.

With an outwards swing of his arm, Azechral flung the still twitching body from his staff. A gout of thick artificial spray connected with his faceplate, splattering his ceramite visage with flecks of blood. His tongue instinctively reached out inside the confines his helm, desperate to taste the coppery liquid and inhale its alluring fragrance. With difficulty he clamped down on his raging needs. He had a recalcitrant king to corrupt.

"_If martial might does not appeal to you, my liege, there is always the path of immortality. Grandfather Nurgle, the great, benevolent god of death can grant you such a gift should you choose to follow him. His worshippers are legion, and they bear the fruit of long lives far extended from any mortal existence. The reward of immortality is freely given to all, for Nurgle is a kind and compassionate idol who cannot stand to see his children fall into the clutches of death, even though that is his forte. Serve this god, and you along with all of your people will walk this land for all eternity. Of course, these gifts will be bestowed upon your armies as well. None will be able to stand before the inexorable march of your warriors, for none can harm one that is immortal."_

The sorcerer lowered his Bedlam Staff towards the two spellcasters who had just so recently assailed him with their pitiful skills. The fallen Astartes leered derisively in their direction.

This world was almost separate from the Warp, but that did not meant it was completely free from the Immaterium. The effects were subtle. Faint. But it was still there. Magic, as the inhabitants of this planet called it, was the major result. Devoid of continued connections to the Empyrean, the psychic potential of this Azeroth slowly decayed until it all but disappeared. Traces of it, however, managed to manifest in beings of substantial power and intelligence. These were the first mages, humans and xenos who still possessed the gift of the psychic, but were woefully ignorant of their true nature. As generations passed, more psykers were born, each weaker in talent than the last. The trend continued, until the ability to manipulate with the mind was replaced all but completely by the aptitude to control fire, ice, and the arcane.

There were a few still left on this world that technically could be considered as gifted as he, though to a lesser extent. Ysera and some of her green dragonkin. A human living within the former kingdom of Lordaeron. Another residing in the city of Theramore. He had probed them all when he first set foot on this planet. None could compare to the sheer, unadulterated power he wielded in the name of all four Chaos Gods.

A maddening drone issued from the tip of his staff, the sound of many insectoid wings beating together. One of the spell users, a woman clothed in bright azure and white robes, saw the Word Bearer's intent and vanished in a flash of magic tendrils. The other, a man robed in garments of black and purple, either was too stupid to move or simply could not repeat his comrade's action.

And hence was the recipient of Azechral's wrath.

A thick cloud of pox flies emerged in front of the sorcerer, maggoty bodies fat and bloated with Nurgle's plagues. Each insect carried a barbed stinger as long as man's thumb, dripping with globules of disease-ridden pus. One sting could kill a fully grown adult of any species within seconds or within minutes, dependant on which plague was injected into the bloodstream. A thousand such creatures he now had under his command. It would be overkill. It was overkill.

With a wave from a crimson gauntlet, the cloud of enraged flies descended upon the sorcerer's hapless target in a wild frenzy of stabbing stingers. The buzzing of membranous wings drowned out the man's screams as hundreds of pointed tips pierced his flesh and injected the viral creations of the Great Lord of Decay. A dozen diseases filled his thrashing foe's veins, clotting blood, decaying skin, and putrefying flesh. With a gurgling wail, the magic caster fell, and was soon enveloped completely by the plague insects, who sustained their frantic rate of stinging at the behest of their master.

Azechral felt slightly jealous. It was a testament to Nurgle's compassion that his gifts would be so easily doled out to those who had not earned them.

"_Immortality is a gift not many would spurn, but if you do, my lord, there are still options to consider. Perhaps you will walk the path of sorcery. Not the kind you are familiar with, but something much, much more potent. If that is your wish, then Tzeentch, the all-knowing god of magic, will aid your designs. Become a devotee to him, and you will gain knowledge and power unfathomable in scale. Your fingertips will dance with streaks of lightning, reducing your hated foes into piles of mere ash. Armies of your enemies will burn in blazing conflagrations of fire, immolated by merely a word issued from your lips. Your kingdom will be a haven of peace and prosperity, governed by those who have been granted enlightenment by the deity of change."_

Another fireball crashed into his left pauldron, leaving a smoldering patch of blackened ceramite. The sorcerer growled spitefully. The Words of Lorgar had been carefully etched onto every inch of his armor, and he was loathe to have the holy text defiled by an enemy so unworthy. He turned towards the direction of the attack, his blade tipped staff lowered and filled with the promise of an agonizing death. A successive volley of light purple bolts greeted him, slamming into his helm and detonating in flashes of arcane energies. The Chaos Astartes felt the impacts and shrugged them off. Each blast that rang against his archaic faceplate had been akin to the magnitude of an exploding bolter round. Deadly, yes, but far from lethal against one as enhanced as he.

The Word Bearer returned the spell user's sorcery with his own. Lifting an open palm, he poured ten millennia worth of hatred and malice into his mind, reveling in the strands of Warp power that cackled into being around his armored frame. With an indolent wave of his hand, Azechral sent a dozen streaks of pure psychic energy towards the woman who had so brazenly desecrated his armor, and in extension, so brashly insulted his primarch.

Unexpectedly, his foe disappeared again, narrowly avoiding the lashing tendrils that would surely have torn her apart. He frowned. This magic user resembled the Eldar Aspect Warriors known as Warp Spiders he had come across on the xeno worlds he raided under Kor Phaeron's banner. Fickle and erratic opponents, they would materialize from the Warp to strike at his brethren and then retreat back to safety via the same means. Of course, he had found a way to deal with the finicky xenos then. As he would find a way to destroy this woman now.

A dark prayer to the Changer of Ways escaped his lips, a long winding phrase filled with blasphemous words and hateful syllables. With a triumphant smirk, the sorcerer rammed the end of his stave into the ground, the tainted force weapon digging deep into dirt. The effect was instantaneous. The very earth shook and groaned as a tide of corruption emitted from his grounded Bedlam Staff, expanding rapidly in all directions. The soil changed in hue, the former brown turning into a violent clash of bright purple and dark blue. The favored colors of Tzeentch.

The magic caster reappeared into his sight, her arm outstretched to summon forth another spell. And landed firmly on the despoiled earth.

Azechral grinned.

The woman shrieked as her flesh writhed and churned into impossible patterns. Her bones expanded and snapped in a score of places, breaking through mutating skin in sprays of red ichor. Like clay the power of the sorcerer molded her body, changing every aspect, every portion of her form to suit the Grand Schemer's designs. The spell user toppled, her face a rapidly transforming visage of terror. She hit the ground with a dull thump, still convulsing as her mortal shell continued to twist into fantastic and implausible shapes.

"Mylissa!"

A shining hammer of radiance collided with his chest, the sheer force of the blow smashing him to his knees. His last opponent, a man attired in bright yellow plate charged towards him, a two-handed mace raised high to strike. The grief and despair in this new challenger's voice was apparent. The woman he had so blessed with the touch of Tzeentch had evidently been of close relationship to this warrior. From his kneeling position, the sorcerer raised a taloned gauntlet towards the rapidly approaching foe. This one will belong to the Mistress of Desire.

"_The last of the paths before you is the one most sensuous, my king. It is the path of Slannesh, goddess of love and fertility. She is the patron of desire and lust, and her touch affects all. When you lie next to your woman, it is Slannesh who allows for the deep feeling of satisfaction that beats within your breast. When you yearn for your lover, it is she who answers your wants and needs. Her devotees are countless and diverse, for the quest for pleasure is one sought by all. She is tender and wise in her rewards to those who worship her. Give yourself to this goddess, and your people will adore you like no other. Swear loyalty to her, and you will be granted perfection beyond what is humanly possible."_

The Word Bearer summoned forth a wave of sumptuous pleasure and speared it into the mind of his attacker. The man abruptly halted in his tracks, the weapon that a second ago was so ready to deal death dropped limply from spasming hands. Using the wave as a foundation, he wove a world filled with seduction and endless bliss into his opponent's conscience, eradicating any sense of reason that had managed to survive the initial surge of pleasure. The warrior's features turned into a mask of ecstasy, eyes rolling madly in their sockets as the caresses of Slannesh lured him from the path of righteousness and deep into the realms of damnation.

Azechral laughed.

Using the Bedlam Staff as a walking stick, the sorcerer strode listlessly towards his now helpless victim.

"Mylissa… My Mylissa! My sweet Mylissa!" the man cried out in delirious delight, leaving no doubts to what kind of fantasies roamed within his tampered mind.

The Chaos Space Marine loomed over the rambling figure. He gestured to the woman this man held so close to his heart, now nothing more than an unrecognizable mound of splintered bones and warped flesh.

"Your Mylissa is there. Go to her," he spoke mildly.

With a lust filled shout, the pleasure influenced warrior dove towards the object of his desire, giggling uncontrollably as his arms encompassed the squirming sack of corrupted meat in a fierce embrace. The Word Bearer watched in fascination as the man squeezed the wriggling heap to his chest and kissed the folds of flabby skin stretched by mutation with heated passion. The armor plating protecting the warrior's legs and hips were shed off, as was the short tunic that lay underneath. It did not take a Mechanicus Magos to figure out what would happen next.

The sorcerer glowered irritably at the sight of debauchery that was taking place at his feet. Slannesh's gifts to him were the fewest out of the four Warp Gods, and he was keen to receive more of her favor. It galled him that such worthless beings could feel the stimulating touch from the Mistress of Dark Delights, yet he had to earn her approval with constant sacrifices. The Word Bearer shrugged at these thoughts. After Stormwind's fall, he would have ample enough souls to satiate the ravenous hunger of all four of his idols… for a short time at least.

"_These paths are laid out before you as clear as daylight, lord Wrynn. It is up to you to decide which you wish to tread upon the most."_

A pregnant pause followed. Varian's next words were filled with uncertainty.

"_These gods you describe must be powerful indeed. But I am hesitant to believe that they would aid me without some form of recompense. There has to be some sort of catch."_

"_No catch, my king. No catch at all. The Warp gods are magnanimous beings, and freely bless those they discern as worthy. All they require of you, is a… simple… offering to cement your allegiance."_

"_And what exactly am I supposed to offer?"_

Behind his horned helm, Azechral showed his fangs in a longing hiss.

"_Souls, great king. Souls. Not many, mind you. Just a few. All the Warp deities want is to know you are loyal to them. Anyone will do. Seize some wandering vagrants in the darkest corners of your city and anoint their blood in an eight pointed star. They will not be missed. And you. You my lord, will gain enough power to make your enemies tremble at the mere mention of your approach!"_

A second passed. A second filled with awkward silence. And then the king of Stormwind exploded with rage.

"_YOU…YOU… YOU DARE!"_ Varian roared, his speech stuttered from sheer fury, _"YOU DARE THINK I WOULD BE SO LOW AS TO STOOP TO YOUR EVIL WAYS! NONE OF MY PEOPLE WILL BE SACRIFICED TO YOUR DAMNED GODS! THIS I SWEAR! VILE, DESPICABLE MONSTER! I KNEW YOU WERE UP TO NO GOOD WHEN YOU FIRST INVADED MY MIND! ONLY THE LIKES OF THE TWILIGHT HAMMER WOULD RESORT TO SUCH COWARDICE!"_

The Word Bearer snarled in disbelief. Only fools such as the loyalist dogs of the Imperium would spurn the gifts of Chaos. He had overestimated this Varian's intelligence.

"_Allow me to explain myself, lord king, I---"_

"_SILENCE! I WILL NOT LISTEN TO YOUR DECEITFUL WORDS ANY LONGER! AWAY WITH YOU, FOUL DEMAGOGUE! BEGONE FROM MY MIND!"_

Azechral sighed, this time in frustration.

"_Very well, king Varian. But remember, these four paths are always open to you… If you possess a change of mind, then you will find me ready and willing to advise…"_

He withdrew from his target's conscience, extracting the long strands of psychic power that connected the king to his mind. The sorcerer fought down the rising anger that threatened to swell from his breast. He was a patient man. The failing here was of no detriment to his master plan. Time was needed for the king to fall under his influence. He would not mind waiting for the corruption to fully manifest itself.

The seed of doubt had already been planted. And from that seed would bloom the flower of Chaos Undivided.

Beneath the rune-etched helm, the Word Bearer's features twisted into a contented smile. Then, and only then, would he gain what for long millennia he had sought.

The rank of exalted daemonhood.

* * *

Her eyes snapped open. Amethyst colored pupils narrowed in contemplation.

She had not expected the mon-keigh to resist. Their race was all too easy to manipulate, too eager to listen to the dark whispers that promised them power. This king had managed to distance himself from the sibilant murmurs in his ear. If he was not of human breed, then perhaps he would be deserving of Eldar praise.

In the end, it would not matter whether he fell sooner or later, or even at all. The fates still pointed in the same direction. The direction towards war.

"Liltieth," her voice carried the authority of many a millennia of guiding her people.

"Yes, Farseer," the Howling Banshee Exarch answered, eagerness in her tone.

Yrlith sensed the lust for bloodshed in her sister. The need to slaughter and kill. She did not blame her. The same lust sang in her veins as well.

"Assemble the warhost. The time for battle draws near. And we must be ready when that time comes. The children of Chaos must not be allowed to stand."

Liltieth brandished the curved blades of her Mirror Swords fiercely.

"Kaela Mensha Khaine will gorge himself on the blood of our fallen foes!"

The Howling Banshee bowed her head towards Yrlith before sprinting down the rocky incline, excitement in her steps.

The Farseer watched her sister disappear into the webway. A sad smile played on her lips.

"The blood of our fallen foes, yes. But that blood will contain the essence of Eldar lives as well."


	31. The Past Retold

_Overdrive1: By the time Avarian and Azechral meet on the field of battle, Avarian will have already gained a few allies. But then again, so will the sorcerer! The Howling Banshee Exarch will be encountered, but won't join Avarian's party. As for Vareesa being burned… we'll see. :P_

_Leafy8765: The Caverns of Time will be covered, though not in the way you are used to._

_Thule: Heh, well, I would imagine Chaos wouldn't have many followers at all if their worshippers knew fully what they were getting into._

_Weapon-VII: Green dragons would be more of the psyker type since they have the whole Emerald Dream going on for them. Blue dragons, while strong in magic, have devolved from true psykers. During the time of the Great Crusade, humanity was just as xenophobic as they are now in the 41__st__ millennium. However, mankind at that time was more enlightened than they are now and were generally more open towards their own fellow humans._

_JagerPanzer: Oh, the reprimand will come later. Avarian won't simply accept her right away, even for her courage._

Chapter 30

Sylvanas Windrunner was usually of calm and composed temperament. She had been the Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas in her past life, an occupation that demanded the virtues of a patient hunter. She had excelled in that role, laying elaborate traps to waylay those who would rise up arms against Silvermoon. The undead host lead by Arthas had suffered much against her generalship, and their losses to her quick striking forces were many and numerous. Against any other foe, her masterful ambushes would have left the enemy exhausted and without the means to continue. But the Scourge was not any other foe. Their ranks were filled with beings who did not need to rest, who did not need to eat, and who would never retreat. There were no supply lines for her to cut, no vulnerable food depots for her to raid. She was forced to strike when knowing full well whatever advantages she may have had were being wrested from her grasp with each Pyrrhic victory. Her efforts, while valiant, were in the end, in vain. Her body joined those of her loyal followers, fallen at the last of the Elf Gates, torn and bloodied from the numerous blows rained down by the hands of the dead.

The fates were not kind to her. She was denied the peace a hero of her stature should have deserved. The former prince of Lordaeron dragged her battered corpse to a desecrated alter and wrenched her screaming soul back into the mortal realm with black magics and blasphemous sorceries. Sylvanas Windrunner, champion of the high elves, was no more. Replaced by Sylvanas the Dark Lady. Sylvanas the Ever Hateful. Sylvanas the Banshee Queen.

She had suffered much. But the traits that served her so well in life, refused to leave her in death.

As Arthas's power waned, his iron hold over her diminished, allowing for the first inklings of free-will to flicker into her mind. Her independence had returned. However, it returned with a price. The ability to think without the Scourge's sway meant that she was fully aware of the monstrosity she had become. Her attunement with the spirits of nature was gone. The fey sprites of the forests rejected her pleas for help and avoided her like the plague itself. Those she had died defending spurned her. She was but another undead in a land ravaged by war and disease, no better and no worse than the mindless hordes that still followed the Lich King's commands.

Shock turned to grief. Grief turned to anger. Anger turned to an undying thirst for vengeance.

How desperately she longed to sink a blade into her hated nemesis's heart when she fully awoke from the stupor of being controlled. How desperately she longed to see the agony etched on Arthas's face, the same agony that she had endured at the hands of such vile an enemy. But, she knew the time was still not right. The death knight's power was still far greater than hers, and could easily slay her with a sweep from Frostmourne, or even worse, haul her back into the clutches of the Lich King. So she waited, and watched for the opportune moment to emerge. Just as she did when traversing the woodlands of Quel'Thalas, searching for the right instance to assail her foes.

That opportune time occurred when Arthas returned to the now desolated lands of Lordaeron to claim his crown. Weak from his exertions, the death knight was woefully unprepared when his very own forces, thought to be loyal beyond question, stormed his quarters to seek bloody revenge. Defeated and weary, the former prince of a glorious kingdom, now king of a barren wasteland, retreated into the diseased wilds of Tirisfal Glades. There, he met a merciless and vengeful Sylvanas backed by a cordon of spectral Banshees. The despair written on the countenance of her hated archenemy would be one of her most treasured memories. Her patience and fortitude had rewarded her well. But the fates still hated her with a passion.

The excruciating punishment she had been so ready to dole out was denied to her when Kel'Thuzad, lich lackey to Arthas, arrived in the nick of time to drive her away from the weakened death knight. Words could not describe her frustration as the target of her retribution disappeared from her sight. Patience and fortitude had brought her to the brink of victory, with only cruel fate refusing to acknowledge the triumph that should rightfully have been hers.

The favored servant of the Lich King had fled from her grasp, but her need for vengeance still burned strong. She gathered those like her who similarly were free of Arthas's control, and took the catacombs underneath the capitol of Lordaeron for their new home. As months passed, the Undercity was constructed, carved from the weathered stone of a vast mausoleum dedicated to the land's long dead people. In this expanse of time, her thoughts had not been idle. She had brooded long and hard in her throne room, the first completed wing of her underground domain. Her hatred had expanded, not only encompassing Arthas and the Scourge, but to all living beings as well. Why did she have to bear the anguish of such a tormented existence when there were plenty of others that resided on this world who lived lives free of worry? What right did the Light, the Titans, or whatever greater power that inhabited this universe have to force her onto this path of despair and misery? It was unfair. Unjust. A hero like her should not have to walk this world forever damned by the cold embrace of undeath.

She would have to find a way to cure this inequality. By excessive force, if need be.

Her solution was another plague. Not very creative, but nevertheless, still effective. While the disease of the Scourge caused an agonizing demise and then wretched rebirth as an enthralled husk of putrefying flesh, her's would be different. The minions of the Lich King were without intelligence and without the capacity to think for themselves. They did not realize what hideous parodies of life they had become. They could not see for themselves how grotesque their bodies had been twisted by necromancy and decay. Mindlessness was a blessing to these creatures, and in some ways, she longed for that same lack of awareness. Her version of the plague would differ in that its victims would still possess their sanity after the ravages of rot had taken their toll. Only then, would they know of the suffering she and the rest of the Forsaken had to endure. Only then, would this world be fair.

Again, patience was what she believed was key. The progress of the Royal Apothecary Society was slow and tedious, but she was content to wait. Just like how an ambush would deliver fantastic results only when it was skillfully planned and safeguarded from failure, her viral gift to Azeroth would be unleashed only when it was masterfully concocted and guaranteed to work. She allowed the apothecaries free reign to do as they pleased, a calculated action that she thought would hasten the progress of the plague. The effect was twofold, both seemed harmless at the time, but one would later prove to be disastrous. The first was the founding of a new religion among the Forsaken, the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, a bastardization of the Holy Light that spread like wildfire among her people, particularly her very own Dark Rangers. The second was the close relationship that had developed between the higher echelons of the Apothecary Society with the traitor dreadlord, Varimathras.

While the first was annoying to the extreme, it remained undisruptive towards her goal. The second lead to the debacle at Angrathar and consequently to the premature unveiling of her incomplete plague.

Once more her innate traits of perseverance had served her well, with only fickle fate preventing her plans from fruition. Once more she had been so close to her goal, only for vindictive fortune to block her path towards victory. Disappointment lingered in her soul to join the hatred already dwelling within. Indeed, what use was patience when every conceivable way she had to sake her thirst for vengeance was stopped by events not under her control? She was done with adhering to the virtues of the Ranger-General.

The Dark Lady paced furiously back and forth in front of the backdoor entrance to the Undercity.

Before the arrival Arthas and the Scourge tide, the crumbling opening was the exit pipe of the capitol's sewer system. Now, it was the entry of the long, convoluted passageway that ended in the depths of her underground lair. A secondary method to access the very heart of her realm might seem lacking in logic, militarily speaking, but it was necessary for some circumstances. And this was one such circumstance.

Her agitation was apparent to only two beings. Dark Ranger Cyndia and Master Apothecary Faranell. The isolation this entrance provided had seen to that. Both of her servants glanced at each other hesitantly, unsure of their mistress's disturbing change in mood.

"My Queen. This is not like you. You are usually calm and collected. Surely the situation is not beyond redeeming," Faranell rasped, his drooping tongue wobbling in accompaniment with his speech.

"The situation, as you so eloquently put it, apothecary, is very much beyond redeeming," she snapped irritably, "Our blunder at the Wrathgate is too large to be swept under the table that is politics. Heads will roll. And our allies, however important they may be, will not be willing to sacrifice their own positions on the totem pole to assist us."

The head of the Royal Apothecary Society stepped back at her outburst, suitably chastened.

"But mistress, we did not partake in the treachery preformed by Putress and Varimathras. The Horde would not persecute those who were innocent of this whole affair," this time it was Cyndia that spoke.

Sylvanas sighed as she replied.

"You are one of my finest Rangers, Hawkspear, yet sometimes your naiveté speaks otherwise. You do not understand the true nature of our Horde, or any alliance for that matter. A coalition of factions only works when there is benefit for all to be had. Thrall accepted us into the Horde because we could provide a welcome base of operations in a land that exclusively belongs to the Alliance. Now, with the events of Angrathar hanging over our heads, that benefit has been greatly diminished. Our usefulness is now offset by betrayal of Putress. It will be not long before that usefulness disappears completely."

An uneasy silence followed her words, broken only by the faint rustling of the forest that surrounded the clearing.

"Then. Then what should we do next, mistress?"

"I do not know, Cyndia. Events are spiraling far beyond my control. Perhaps the Horde will allow us our sovereignty. Perhaps we are destined for the executioner's block. But, rest assured, I have a different path in mind for us to take."

Faranell rejoined the conversation, his throat emitting the gurgling, phlegm-filled sound she was all too familiar with.

"A path that you would divulge to us, milady?"

The Banshee Queen nodded to him, showing a perfect set of white teeth in a grim smirk.

"The very path that we are on."

"Cryptic as always my queen."

She ignored the jibe; her attention had switched from the apothecary to the Dark Ranger.

"You are sure he will arrive, Cyndia? And peaceably at that? Though I do not doubt your ways of persuasion, men such as he would generally run towards us waving giant sized swords."

"Yes, mistress. It turns out I did not need to use my arts of influence at all. I simply suggested that a joint venture between his Scarlet Guard and us Forsaken could be achieved. He accepted my proposal. I had not imagined such a large fish could be caught with so small a bait."

The Dark Lady shook her head at these words. Cyndia was one of the few that had served her in life, and now continued such service in death. One of her lieutenants in their war against the Scourge, she had proven herself to be a fine warrior and quick-thinking leader. Had they won, it may very well have been Cyndia who inherited her mantle as the Ranger-General of Quel'thelas. But they had not won. They were defeated, with each and every one of them slain by Arthas and his undead minions. Loyal to the end, Ranger Hawkspear had fought by her side at the last Elf Gate, spitting defiance in the face of defeat. Sylvanas's last sight before the veil of death covered her eyes had been her faithful subordinate standing over her prone body, beating back the oncoming tide of decayed creatures with a shattered bow.

She appreciated Cyndia, there was no doubt about that. But her erstwhile lieutenant was inclined to be overconfident at times. A trait that would prove to be fatal if it was not corrected soon.

"Do not underestimate him, or any other, my favored one. You are a Dark Ranger, cunning warrior from afar. As much as you rely on the strength of your bow arm, you must also rely on the depths of your wit. Trap and ensnare the foe to your leisure, but know that there is a chance that even the most masterfully planned ambush will sometimes fail. You must be prepared for such a circumstance, if it were to occur, Cyndia."

Bright red pupils regarded her with surprise. Equally red lips pursed together in a gloomy sulk. Sylvanas fought down the urge to frown. Her favored servant was too used to her accolades. If all it took was a bit of criticism to knock her from her pedestal, then the Banshee Queen did not want to know just how little it would take to utterly crush the Ranger's spirits.

She turned towards Faranell, her features betraying a glimmer of impatience.

"Apothecary. I take it you have prepared the concoction for our guest?"

The haggard Forsaken male reached into the folds of his frayed robes and produced an ornate goblet crafted from pure gold.

"I would not dream of failing you, my queen. I have brewed a small dose of the most recent version of our plague with a hefty amount of alcohol, as per your instructions. A bottle of Pinot Noir to be exact. Good stuff. Good stuff. It is a pity that our new friend will be only briefly allowed a taste of such fine wine before death comes to claim him," the master alchemist grated, a bit of wistfulness in his tone.

Sylvanas strode towards the proffered chalice, halting before the apothecary to glean into its contents. Swishing liquid met her stare, deep purple in color with not a trace of the deadly virus that was laced within. Faranell had failed completely in creating a disease that could match that of the Scourge's death plague, but he had at least outdone himself here.

"Will this version be sufficient enough to grant undeath once drunk?" she asked cautiously.

Farnaell's face fell a little. An expression that when added to his visage's advanced state of decay, only served to make him even uglier in appearance.

"No, my lady. The latest concoction was the one used at Angrathar. Lethal, yes. But lacking in the 'raise the dead' department. There was no time for further research when Varimathras and Putress took over our fair city."

"But it will be adequate enough to kill immediately?"

"Of course! Though the plague is still unrefined, it should still cause death almost instantaneously once injected into the body."

"Then that should be satisfac---"

"He approaches, mistress!" Cyndia interrupted her with a faint cry of alarm.

Her head snapped towards the direction of the Dark Ranger's pointed finger.

The looming figure was unmistakable as it stomped through the foliage. The silver eagle etched on a wide chest. The twin pauldrons of disproportionate dimensions flanking a sneering helm. The massive gun that resembled a small cannon cradled in gauntlets the size of her head. The straight-edged sword baring a multitude of serrated teeth along its edge. The fluttering ribbons that decorated his body, affixed into place by seals of wax. A dangling amulet of some angel she did not recognize hanging from his neck. Avarian. Slayer of the Burning Legion. The doom of Varimathras. And soon to be Forsaken.

"Ahhh. So that is our guest. I wonder if he will still be able to wear that impressive suit when the rot begins its work," the apothecary muttered.

She hushed him with a stern glance, her red irises dilating in silent fury. Faranell quailed under the glare, unwilling to match the intense anger radiating from his queen. Satisfied that no more comments that could potentially expose her plans prematurely would come from her servant's mouth, the Dark Lady once again turned her attention towards the advancing metal being.

The god had polished his armor. No more did blood and gore blemish the blackened metal of his plated form. The smears of viscera that once streaked his massive frame were gone, washed away diligently by practiced hands. She realized the implications instantly. Warriors of experience usually scoured their armor of dirt and grime before the start of battle. A long standing tradition as well as practicality that curiously, was not lost on this strange man. Sadly, the still approaching giant would not be visiting any battlefields any time soon, at least not on any battlefields not of her choosing. She smiled thinly at the irony. Avarian had cleaned himself for his own funeral.

"Mistress, there is a small desire that I wish you would fulfill for me," Hawkspear whispered nervously, as though if her next words would be scandalous, "if not for my long years of service to you in death, then for those that I have served under you in life."

Sylvanas paused in her thoughts at the Dark Ranger's request. Cyndia was usually not one to ask for favors.

"Name it."

"Once the Iron Angel is subjected to the plague, it will kill him and you will raise him from the dead as one of the mindless ones, yes? If that is the case, I beseech you mistress, to allow him to be placed under my command."

The Banshee Queen found her curiosity piqued. It was not often one of the living would interest one who belonged to the dead. Especially when it was one who belonged to her own elite retinue. Her answer would have to be reserved until she could fully gather why the metal man was so fascinating to her servant.

"We shall see," she replied as the thudding of armored boots announced Avarian's arrival into the clearing.

Sylvanas stepped forward, her arms swept wide in a welcoming gesture.

"I thank you Sir Avarian for what---"

"Save your gratitude, xeno," the giant cut her off, his voice thick with revulsion, "My actions that day were done in the name of the Emperor and for the Imperium of Man. You can thank me later when my boltgun grants you an end to your blasphemous existence."

Her speech died on her lips. Hostility was expected, yes, but not in such a copious amount. Faranell shrank back at the venomous tone, while Cyndia looked apprehensively in her direction.

The giant halted directly in front of her, the tear-shaped visor slits of his helm winking evilly in the dim light. Up close, the man was even taller. Even at her own considerable height, her head could only reach his chest. She was forced to peer up in order to see the god's face, hidden as it was by the cruel mask of metal.

Avarian continued his scathing diatribe, though a tinge of curiosity had crept into his timbre.

"Xeno. That is what you are. Aberrant to humanity and cast from the Emperor's Light to forever writhe in the flames of damnation. Yet, there is a difference. A difference purely physical. Your heart does not beat. Your lungs do not fill with air. Your organs do not function. The blood in your veins have clotted and congealed. By all rights, your body should not be capable of even standing in such a state. There is no question. You are dead. But, how is this possible? I see no foul marks of Chaos engraved on your skin. Neither do I see the corruption that is Nurgle's work sprouting from your frame. What tainted sorceries could have brought the dead back to life?"

She was perplexed. How could this man not know about the Forsaken? Both the Alliance and the Horde were fully aware of the former citizens of Lordaeron that dwelled within the Undercity. This Avarian had either lived in a hole for the past ten years, or simply was too stupid to differentiate her and her people from the ilk of the Scourge. The giant did not appear to be lacking in intelligence, so it had to be the latter.

"Arthas caused this to happen," Sylvanas hissed sibilantly, "Made us into what we are now. He and his undead horde swept through our lands, indiscriminately killing our people and rising them as the mindless undead. We are a product of his evil actions."

"Then you admit to being one of the Scourge!" the god spat spitefully.

"We once were, yes. I do not deny that. But we have cast away the wretched shroud of the Lich King's control. We are no longer slaves to Arthas's every beck and call. We now offer bitter resistance to the Scourge and their allies. We have, in a way, redeemed ourselves from our previous ways."

"Redemption for xenos is impossible. The heretic secretly longs for absolution. That is something the Angels of Death can grant. As our bolters are charged with death, they also deliver the salvation to those who have turned their backs to the Immortal Emperor. However, the alien possess no good whatsoever in their deviant forms. There is nothing to be redeemed," Avarian growled in disgust, a plated finger twitching at the trigger of his bulky gun.

Things were escalating beyond her control. She needed to direct the conversation towards her own end, before the giant decided to fully compress a finger on that trigger.

"Your words have merit, Sir Avarian," it vexed her that she would have to agree with this man's arrogant prattling, but it would serve her purpose soon enough, "and I am keen on hearing more about our inferiority. However, I believe time is a factor, or otherwise, you would not be standing here today."

As expected, her sarcasm flew past the metal warrior undetected. Instead, he focused on the last sentence of her speech.

"Time moves at the pace the Emperor decrees. But, you are right in this regard, at least. The forces of Chaos have dug deep into this world, corrupting the purity of the Great Crusade. I will not allow for that to happen! The Scourge is another vile foe desecrating the works of those who came to this planet ten thousand years ago. They too will feel the wrath of the Emperor's Finest! You and your pitiful lackeys pale in comparison to the threat they possess. My attention must be focused on cleansing these filth first, and foremost. You can wait your turn to be purged."

"So it is agreed then. We will have a suspension of hostilities between us and the Scarlet Crusade," Sylvanas spoke soothingly, brushing past the hateful syllables.

"A suspension, and nothing more. After this world is free of corruption, and brought back within the tenets of the Imperial Creed, there will be a reckoning between you and me," the threat in the giant's tone was obvious. She dismissed it. Threats were useless when uttered from the lips of a future slave to her will.

"I can hardly wait… However, there is a matter of sealing this pact of nonaggression between our respective forces."

"You have my word."

"I need a better guarantee than that, Sir Avarian. Though I do not doubt the sincerity of your declaration, there are others who would stab us in the back if I were to allow such a treaty to pass without some form of assurance."

"I am Astartes. Honor is my life. Let none dispute it," the god stated simply.

"Yes. I do not doubt that either. But once again, I need some form of assurance. Luckily for the both of us, I have brought a means just for the occasion," she gestured towards Faranell, "The people of this land have a tradition, you see. Whenever an alliance is formed or some other momentous event occurs, the host bequeaths to the guest a goblet of wine as a symbol of peace. Such a tradition has been kept by us even in death. Perhaps this custom would be satisfactory for today?"

She took the chalice from the apothecary's hands and extended it towards the giant, a small smirk on her face. The god's forbidding helm glared down at her with obvious distaste.

"If I was a member of the Ordo Xenos, I would have assumed the remoteness of this location as to be the grounds of some sort of ambush," Avarian's comment caused her smirk to vanish completely, "If I was a member of the Ordo Malleus, I would have imagined the sudden change in behavior in one of two hateful foes as a poorly planned trick. If I was member of the Ordo Hereticus, I would have deemed the honeyed words you have laid before me, despite my goading, as a poor cover for a far more sinister purpose."

Goading? It was a test all along? The Dark Lady almost screamed out in aggravation. Almost. She was too used to maintaining a cold aura of apathy to show her frustration immediately. Her mask of indifference remained etched on her features, but behind that façade was a boiling cauldron of turmoil.

"But I am not of the likes of the Inquisition and their ill-conceived ways of determining guilt. I am a Space Marine. A battle-brother of the Death Spectres. I have no need for suspicion. The Emperor guides me to whatever end He wishes, be it everlasting glory, or ignominious defeat," Avarian reached for his faceplate with one hand, the other still maintaining a tight hold over his weapon. A hissing sound escaped from the giant's armor as the headpiece was disengaged from its corresponding gorget, showing a countenance she did not expect.

Sylvanas now fully understood why Cyndia was so keen on keeping this man for herself. His looks were exquisite. Far from the perfection of the high elves, but decent enough to stand out from his own kind. Hard features, seemingly chiseled, met her approving stare. A single knob of metal was seemingly drilled into the far right of his forehead, and along with the faint traces of a few scars crossing his face, marred an otherwise handsome face. Blue pupils frowned at her, matched to the background of a skin so pale in color, it was indistinguishable from that of a corpse freshly dug from the ground.

He wore the picturesque appearance of the clichéd knight on top of a mighty war steed, features noble and taciturn. She desperately wanted to destroy that image. Make his dignified bearing stooped and monstrous. Peel the flesh from his body with the ravages of decay. Contort his valorous face into a visage of maddened despair. Drive the regal air in his voice away and replace it with craven screeches of self-loathing. Turn him into one of the living dead. Transform him into one of them.

But if he knew of her deception, then she would most likely not see another dawn, let alone see the giant as one of the Forsaken.

A plated gauntlet wrested the goblet from her hands, and brought it to lips alabaster in hue. She blinked in surprise. If the god knew, then why was he taking a drink from a concoction guaranteed to kill him? Unless, he was suicidal in nature.

Avarian stared down at her one last time before downing the flask's entire contents in a single gulp.

She waited. Waited for the sudden expression of shock that was soon to appear. Waited for the agonizing pain to writhe upon his features. For the hateful glare of betrayal that would follow. For the fearful glimmer in his eyes to appear before death took its hold.

A minute passed. Two. Three.

"There are many things that go well with wine. Poison is not one of them." Avarian's words jarred her from her reverie.

She was too stunned to respond.

The giant's gaze locked onto her's, just as baleful and disdainful as before. With a deft motion, he flung the chalice away. The grimacing helmet was forced back on, once again hiding the man's face from view. One last scornful look and he was gone, his gait swift and determined as he marched deep into the surrounding forest.

* * *

"The boy was not yet twelve seasons old when we found him," Chaplain Targon's voice echoed deeply amidst the hallowed halls of the Reclusiam, piercing each and every Marine present with its rich and commanding tone, "His parents lay somewhere among the rumble of Kirion IV's capitol city, dead and forgotten like the rest of the good Imperial citizens butchered by the foul heretics. To have survived the clutches of Warp scum for such an extended period of time was no small feat, and worthy of praise. What more, the boy held in his hands a battered pipe stained red with blood. Three nearby corpses showed the telltale signs of being bludgeoned to death. Each corpse bore the mark of the Eight Pointed Star. Impressed with the boy's courage and unflinching loyalty to the Imperium, Brother Captain Sventius decreed that this youngling would be an excellent recipient of Corax's gene-seed. And thus, we took him with us on our Strike Cruiser back to Occludus to partake in the trials of the aspirant."

The Chaplain slowly tread between the ranks of Astartes, the crimson eye slits of his skull mask encompassing all in its stern gaze.

"The boy was exposed to every hardship each one of you has experienced as neophytes, and in some cases, even more so. Many in the chapter openly denounced Sventius's decision to bring the youngling into the fold of the Death Spectres. They feared there was the taint of Chaos lurking inside his body. And so, the boy was scrutinized by the Librarians for corruption within, while the Apothecaries examined for flaws without. None could be found. He was pure of heart and of body. Upon his fourteenth year, the boy from Kirion IV was taken to the implantation chambers deep within our chapter monastery to begin the augmentation process."

Veteran Sergeant Darkur followed the ranking Marine with his eyes, a ceramite gauntlet still clasped to his chest.

"I remember that year as though if it was yesterday. A total of thirty-three neophytes were ready to be gifted with the precious gene-seed of our forefathers. The most in this chapter's long history at any time. It was a promising occasion, for it meant the potential of thirty-three more brothers to join our ranks and fight for the glory of the Immortal Emperor. Sadly, it was not to be. Though our Apothecaries were faultless in their work, thirty-two of the aspirants died before reaching the fourth stage of the implantation process. Only one survived. The boy, he was no longer called. Now Scout Brother Moritan of the Death Spectres."

"Brother Moritan? The famed Brother Sergeant Moritan of the Honored Ones?" Natios broke the eerie silence.

"Aye. Moritan of the Honored Ones. Sergeant of the Tactical Squad that formed the chapter master's very own Honor Guard," Targon grated in response.

Darkur nodded in confirmation with the Chaplain's words. The Death Spectres did not follow the Ultramarine way of forming a cadre of bodyguards for their master, Vallarus. In lieu of valuable and priceless warriors plucked from the First Company to protect the chapter master, the sons of Corax chose a Tactical Squad every nine years to bear the title of the Honored Ones. In most situations, the Honored Ones would still fight with the Company they originally belonged to, but would form around Vallarus in the rare circumstance the chapter master step foot on the battlefield.

To be chosen for such a title was an honor beyond imagining. Unlike the Terrorblades, who formed a Captain's command squad and were subsequently under his authority, the Honored Ones answered only to the chapter master. They were the finest Marines within the brotherhood of a thousand, the best warriors the Imperium could offer for an entire sector. Moritan, as the sergeant of those finest Marines, was entitled to wield the ancient relic blade, Deliverance, a double-edged power sword capable of hewing through a power armored adversary with a single blow. Numerous foes had fallen to the blade, and under Moritan's capable hands, the kill count rose exponentially.

"Moritan was the ideal scion of Corax. An exemplar to us all. Brave, intelligent, and above all, highly adaptive," Targon continued his tale, unperturbed by Natios's earlier interruption, "He swiftly rose through the ranks, earning commendation after commendation for each tour of duty performed as Scout, Assault, Devastator, and Tactical Marine. The sergeants he served under each lauded him for his unwavering courage in the face of superior opposition and cool logic in the heat of battle. It stood to reason then, when Brother Sergeant Pallos was slain in the campaign against the Cythor Fiends, that Brother Moritan would inherit the command of his squad. Incidentally, before Moritan could fully embrace his new status as a leader of Marines, the tendrils of Hive Fleet Jormungandr struck Imperial space."

A storm of angry murmurs followed the Chaplain's last statement. Tyranids. Heathen creatures from another galaxy. Traversing the stars in the massive, organic ships of their Hive Fleets, they consumed entire worlds belonging to the Emperor for the biomass to satiate their blasphemous hunger. Jormungandr was one such Hive Fleet, smashing into the Imperium from the north east of the Ultima Segmentum. Dozens of planets were left as nothing more than barren husks, with all life devoured by billions of ravening maws. The Hive World of Sephrax, where Planetary Defense Forces and the Space Marines of the Crimson Castellans were lost within days of the Tyranid arrival. The Forge World of Megyre, where even the arcane technologies of the Adeptus Mechanicus could not stave off the tide of chitinous xenos.

It was only at the Battle of the Black Nebula that Jormungandr met its demise. Under the able leadership of Admiral Vortigern Hanroth, the Imperial fleet darted amongst the bloated Hive Fleet, fat with biomatter, smiting the vulnerable node-ships with full volleys from their weapon batteries. The Death Spectres played a crucial role in this conflict. Any Hive ships that remained out of reach from the punishing salvos were boarded by the sons of the Raven, where the Astartes destroyed anything of value to the Tyranid synapse web. Losses were heavy, with many a battle-brother perishing within the fleshy, pulsating walls of the xeno vessels. But the Death Spectres had dealt Jormungandr a dolorous blow, and with the valiant efforts of the rest of the Imperial ships, utterly destroyed the Hive Fleet down to the last organism.

"It was against the Tyranids that Brother Moritan would earn his and his squad's place within the Honored Ones. Striking from the boarding pods that were launched from our Battle Barge, Squad Moritan tore a path of fiery destruction within the bowels of the largest Hive ship. With nothing but the most basic armaments did our fellow Death Spectres advance forward, blasting apart alien filth with precise volleys of bolter fire at range and cutting apart their repugnant forms with chainswords up close. And deep within the hated craft, Moritan and his brothers discovered a cluster of synapse nodes too close together to be of coincidence. Having expended all of their grenades against the foe, they smashed each node apart with their bare fists, denying the foul creatures their means of sinister intelligence. Without the aura of command to guide them, the Tyranids within the cavernous halls flung themselves at each other to quench their bloodlust. Soon, the largest of the Hive ships stopped its attacks against our fleet, and remained inactive for the rest of the battle. Incredibly, not a single brother had been lost from Moritan's bold action."

Targon halted at the end of the assembled Astartes, before starting anew his pace.

"Nine years passed in a flash, and soon the time came to choose a new squad for the rank of the Honored Ones. Many were the contenders, with feats of valor both courageous and inspiring. Moritan stood ready to bequeath Deliverance to the next battle-brother who would take his place as leader of the Honored Ones. Before such a time came, however, Captain Sventius received an astropathic transmission on his Strike Cruiser from the Inquisition. The communiqué was a brief one, demanding that we lend them our best warriors for a strike team against a planet on the borders of our sector. With chapter master Vallarus's blessing, Sventius ordered Moritan and his squad to heed the call to arms. Halfway to their destination, the Honored Ones met the Inquisitorial fleet of the Ordo Malleus."

A faint wave of muttering broke out, with many a disparaging oath and belittling insult cast towards the name of the Inquisition. Darkur grunted. There was little love lost between the Death Spectres and the so-called Holy Servants of the Emperor.

"The planet they were sent to had been infected with the rot of Nurgle," the Chaplain's voice dripped low with disgust, "The inhabitants were twisted and deformed by the Curse of Unbelief, mutated into the vile slaves of Chaos. Mindlessly they came in great hordes, stumbling and jerking erratically as the sanctified bolters of the Honored Ones spat death into their ranks. Moritan carved great swatches into the mass of plague zombies with Deliverance, releasing many a soul from the tortured thrall of the Ruinous Powers. With the able assistance of Inquisitor Xera and her mighty armored warriors of grey, Moritan and the Honored Ones drove onwards into the horde of the living dead to combat the foul creature responsible for the planet's defilement. A greater daemon of Nurgle. There, and then, did the forces of Moritan and Inquisitor Xera meet the Warp Filth in combat. There, and then, did Moritan deliver the killing stroke, ramming Deliverance deep into the skull of the daemon who had dared to take a world of the Emperor as his own. There, and then, did Moritan earn his second rotation of duty as Brother Sergeant of the Honored Ones."

Darkur felt the fierce pride that swelled in his breast. The deeds done by Moritan, and any other hero of the Death Spectres brought glory and recognition to the chapter at large. It was his sincere wish that one day, he too could wield Deliverance at the forefront of his own Tactical Squad, winning victory after victory in the Emperor's name.

"It was unprecedented, to be of the Honored Ones for two successive terms. Moritan was the first and the last to achieve such exalted status. Nine more years did Deliverance smite the enemies of humanity, with Moritan as its master. Nine more years did the foes of the Imperium learn to run and hide at our approach. Perhaps Moritan and his squad could have earned another rotation. Perhaps not. The choice was taken from them at the Siege of Aegudun Hive."

Every Death Spectre present clenched their teeth in controlled fury. The Siege of Aegudun Hive. The last battle for the Shrine World dedicated to Saint Jailaine.

The Word Bearers.

* * *

"You are absolutely crazy, Sally. Did you know that? Absolutely crazy."

She glared defiance at the face in front of her, a face sprouting a thick, blonde beard.

"You will know your place, Captain Perrine. I am your superior in rank, and you will show me the respect that my rank entails."

The man spat in her direction, the globule of phlegm narrowly missing her feet.

"Rank? What rank? You have thrown away the position of High Inquisitor given to you by High General Abbendis. What you call yourself now holds no sway over me or my men. Commissar? What sort of foolish rank is that?"

Former Inquisitor Sally Whitemane ground her teeth in anger. Evidently her priests were not all that successful in persuading the others under her command to fall in with the angel's orders.

"The rank of Commissar was given to me by a divine being of the Light! Whether you think otherwise is irrelevant. You will bow to me and the Iron Angel when he arrives," she replied hotly.

"I will never do such a thing! My loyalty is to the Scarlet Crusade and only to the Scarlet Crudade! I would never bend knee to your poor bastardization of our glorious organization!"

She took a step forward menacingly, her staff clenched tightly in one hand. Immediately, Arcanist Doan and two other Captains placed themselves between her and the raging Perrine.

"With all due respect Inquisitor, Perrine is right, despite his inability to keep his temper in check," one of the Captains, Vachon, spoke, "It was in poor taste to leave our Crusade and join the so-called angel's Imperial Guard."

Her eyes narrowed. Vachon hastily stepped back, hands raised in a placating manner.

"I did not mean that you were a traitor, Inquisitor. I merely meant that it would have been more prudent to consider other options."

"There are no other options besides venerating the Emperor as the Light, Captain. So thus the angel decreed, and so thus, we must obey."

"The Emperor? From that far-fetched story of lunacy that one of your heralds told? Hah! Don't make me laugh! No such being could exist!" Perrine mocked.

"You will not blaspheme his Holy name in my presence!" Whitemane leapt for the disobedient officer, with only strong arms preventing her weapon from landing on his head.

"Stay your hand, for Light's sake, Whitemane!" this time the voice belonged to Melrache, Captain of the Scarlet Watch Post, "I, too have heard of the Emperor from your priests, and though the tale is a good one to be shared among friends and with ale, it is still less than believable."

She growled hatefully, struggling in vain to bring her staff crashing down on the smirking Perrine's skull.

"You were not there Melrache! You were not there when the Iron Angel arrived! His words were full of passion and fervor! I believed them then, as do I now! Unhand me this instant so I may punish the unbeliever!"

A faint drone was heard in the distance. She ignored it. Her attention was focused soley on her rebellious subordinate and his unwillingness to accept the Emperor.

"So your angel can speak eloquently. So what? Just because he can make grandiose speeches does not mean you should lick the dirt from his heels."

"You overstep yourself this time, Perrine, though the Inquisitor may be a little foolish today, she is still the one chosen to lead us by High General Abbendis," Captain Rhiana commented mildy. At her side was James Solliden, head of the farmstead within the western borders of Tirisfal. Both had their arms crossed, and were studying the combatants with carefully structured looks of neutrality.

"I do not overstep anything, Rhiana. You know damn well as I do that our oath of brotherhood has been broken this day! By our own leader as well! I am within every right to condemn her."

"We have not broken our vows," Doan cut in, "the Iron Angel was quite explicit in that the Crusade was not to be disbanded. Merely renamed as the Scarlet Guard."

"While that may be so, I will have nothing to do with it. Though Perrine is more loudmouthed than usual, his statements carry merit. My loyalty is to the Scarlet Crusade, not the Scarlet Guard."

Whitemane stared daggers at the new voice's owner. Captain Elisa, commander of a cavalry squadron that had been leant to her by Highlord Taelan Fordring to provide a welcome form of reconnaissance. She sincerely regretted accepting this commander now.

The drone had grown to a faint roar now, and more than a few eyes searched for its source.

"Exactly so, Elisa! Took the words right out of my mouth," Perrine's expression relaxed slightly, "Look here, Sally. It's obvious the angel has you under some form of mind control spell. Just think logically, and you'll break free."

"I am not under his spell! Damn you all! Can't you see the salvation the Iron Angel offers? Can't you see the path of glory he will lead us to?" she cried out passionately.

"What glory? What salvation? Does that path lead us to work with nonhumans?" the Captain pointed an accusing finger at the small band of Argent Dawn that manned the stations at The Bulwark.

"We work with them because there is a greater foe to face, Perrine! Chaos has taken root on our world, the same Chaos that beguiled Horus into betraying the Emperor! I, for one, will not allow such a perfidious enemy to set foot on our lands!"

"This Chaos is simply another fabrication of your Iron Angel. I will not believe such a fanciful foe can exist until there is proof. And I--- WHAT IS THAT INFERNAL RACKET!"

The roar had increased in volume, drowning out all attempts to continue the debate. A black shape of bulky proportions soared over the treetops, trailing twin plumes of azure fire. As the shape neared, Whitemane could make out two crates being carried, each under a stubby wing. Her gaze swept to the protrusions that jutted from thing's back that resembled a shark's dorsal fin. The two immense cylindrical objects projecting from the machine's body also caught her attention. Their resemblance to cannons was unmistakable. It was obviously a vehicle of some sort, perhaps of gnomish design? Then she saw who piloted the strange craft. And smiled for the first time since the argument began.

The trails of cerulean flames halted abruptly, and the craft slowed to a cruise. Everyone present stumbled back as the intimidating vehicle coasted to a stop in the midst of their position. The Iron Angel stepped down from the cockpit, his footstep heavy upon the dirt ground.

Jaws dropped. Her smile grew wider.

"Commissar Whitemane. How many faithful have you brought before me?" the giant's commanding tone sent a shiver down her spine and those of her followers as well.

"Many, great lord. But I cannot say that all of them are faithful," her reply caused looks of horror to be spread among her formerly arguing officers.

"There are dissenters in your ranks then? Very well. I will speak with them."

She was about to comment about a certain few captains when Perrine brushed her aside and knelt hurriedly at the angel's feet.

"There are no dissenters here, Iron Angel! We all believe solely in the divinity of the Emperor!"

Whitemane glowered at the prostrated form of her subordinate. Liar and a kiss-ass, she wanted to call him. But she would curb her disgust for later when the Scarlet Guard was not so desperately in need of manpower.

"Do not kneel before me. Kneel before an effigy of the Father of Mankind. I am merely one of his many servants, and do not deserve such devotion."

Her formerly insubordinate captain rose unsteadily back on his feet, unwilling to look directly into the steely gaze that radiated from the twin red slits of the angel's war helm.

"What is your name, Guardsman?"

"Perrine. Captain Perrine."

"An officer? Fine then. How many soldiers have you brought, captain?"

The Scarlet commander gestured towards a group of men and women, who stood captivated by the presence of the giant.

"I bring a hundred warriors from Nightmare Vale, my liege."

The angel nodded, seemingly satisfied. His gaze swept from the captain towards her other officers.

Captain Melrache snapped a hasty salute as the Iron Angel's stare centered on him.

"Melrache, my lord. Captain as well. I have eighty men under my command."

The giant's gaze roamed still further.

"Captain Vachon, my liege. I bring eighty soldiers from Crusader Outpost."

Another nod of approval.

"I am Captain Rhiana. This is Farmer Solliden. We bring two hundred warriors and militia from the western farmsteads, as well as their families."

A grunt of acceptance.

"Captain Elisa, here. I am in command of the cavalry corps. I have a hundred riders at your disposal."

"Good. Close to a thousand warriors of the Emperor has gathered," the angel spoke, a glimmer of pride in his voice, "A formidable force as any. The enemies of man will learn to fear us from this day on... Commissar Whitemane!"

"My lord!"

"You tell me the Scourge resides past the natural defenses this place provides?"

"Yes. Their largest concentration is at Andorhal."

The Iron Angel patted one of the steel crates fastened to his vehicle affectionately.

"Then Andorhal will burn."


	32. First Strike

_Thule: The hardship is not far off, my friend._

_Emperor Chronicler: If Avarian was a son of Dorn, then he would rather shoot himself than ally with xenos. The Imperial Fists and their successor chapters are known to be extremely stubborn and proud to a fault. They are the least likely chapters to ally with xenos and aliens. In terms of the Tauren, Avarian will most likely think of them as abhumans, though he will still hate them for deviating from the sacred form of mankind._

_Legionary: Avarian doesn't have any mini-nukes. :P_

_Soulless Reader: The Death Spectres have some canon background, just not much. We know for a fact that they participated in the Battle of the Black Nebula against Hive Fleet Jormungandr. We also know that in lieu of command squads, the Death Spectres have Terrorblades guard their captains. However, the majority of their background I have made up. The sorcerer is a Chaos Space Marine who all tend to be arrogant pricks. He took the magical hits because he knew they would fail against his armor._

_JagerPanzer: Thank you for the praise! Sometimes when I'm stuck on certain parts of the story, I go back and read the reviews to urge myself to work harder. Its reviews like yours that gives me the strength to defeat the horror that is writer's block! :P And you were dead on in how Avarian feels towards Sylvanas and the Forsaken._

_Pinto: Considering a bitch slap from a Space Marine would very likely rip the head from one's shoulders, I'm glad our hero restrained himself! _

_Overdrive1: Yes, Avarian has a jump pack in one of the crates. However, he won't use it during the retaking of Andorhal. But when he does use it, you can bet the Crusaders will be awed!_

_OmNomNomingNid: Why use meltabombs when you have a meltagun? :P_

_Arch Indar: Thanks!_

_Lunatic Pandora1: All Space Marines are pyromaniacs! Sisters of Battle, even more so!_

_Timewatch: Indeed, it begins!_

_Thekilleregglord: Killing a Horde Faction Leader, despite her being hated by nearly everyone, will have unpleasant consequences. Namely, it would be an excuse for open war between the Alliance and the Horde, which Avarian does not want to happen, especially with the threat of Chaos looming ever closer. As for the Inquisitor, well, we'll see. Avarian has had contact with the Inquisition before, though how I will not reveal until later._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: I hope this chapter suits your taste then!_

_Dakaath; Thank you!_

_Xynth: Andorhal will burn, but it will be a few chapters beyond this one. Whitemane's Commissar uniform won't be until later, much later in fact, considering there is no Imperial supply depot anywhere on Azeroth. _

_Gear-2557: Pay the money to me and we'll have a deal. :D_

_Akira Stridder: Oh it will brother, it will._

_Vashanti: A mixture of all three probably. Arrogance, confidence in the genetic superiority of his body, and faith in the Emperor to protect him. _

_Lazylegionspark: The plague doesn't cause pain though. It just kills instantly, which it failed to do in this case. _

_Gforce member45: Thanks! I won't be making this a published book. Writing to me is more of a hobby than anything, and I would lose my taste for it if it became my job. Besides, as you said, the copyrights would be a hassle more than I could deal with._

_Will of the Emperor: He hasn't turned after one speech. He still holds Keina in ill regard, but respects her for standing up to him. _

_Mattrocks: The dragonflights will have a part to play in this story, you can rest assured on that!_

Chapter 31

This place had a name before the coming of the Scourge. Before the arrival of death and horror. It had a name, that when uttered, could describe the verdant pastures that fed both its farmers and their livestock. It had a name, that when said, could depict a hundred acres of fertile ground rich with the rewards of lifetimes worth of hard work. It had a name, that when stated, could portray the contentment of the land's simple folk as they toiled lovingly on the nutritious soil. It had a name that was pleasant to the ear, and easy on the lips. It had a name that was worthy of being a realm within the noble lands of Lordaeron. It had a name that was worthy of being one of the four major farmsteads that provided food for the city of Andorhal. It had a name that was not the Writhing Haunt.

That name was no longer remembered. For those who did remember walked the realms as the living dead.

Captain Elisa Pureblade spurred her steed onwards towards the desolate farm. Garith responded to his master's wish, trotting slowly in the direction her able hands guided him to. Her riders followed, encouraging their chargers forward with whispered words that spoke of years of trust and companionship. Had there existed no such bond as close as theirs between man and mount, the horses would not have advanced. The stench of death drifting from the abandoned farmland was palpable in the air, even to the duller senses of humans. And to her and her follower's steeds, that stench instilled a feeling of terror that could barely be overcome.

She felt the same fear resonating within her chest. But unlike the beasts they rode upon, she could control that fear.

"Formation."

Her voice sounded hoarse and in desperate need of water. She blamed the hoarseness on the foolhardy and certainly suicidal feat they were about to perform.

One hundred warriors clad in the crimson uniforms of the Scarlet Crusade urged their mounts into a rough line twenty-five men across and four men deep. Their horses snorted and pawed the ground with iron shod hooves, still visibly uneasy. Missing from their agitated frames was the panoply of armored plates that heralded a steed of a Scarlet Knight. Those chargers were with Highlord Fordring back in Hearthglen, still corralled in their stables until needed. Hers were of the same stock and breed, but were trained to carry lighter riders for far longer distances. As a result, the soldiers under her command were armored only in vests of mail and leather, and wore open faced helms that exposed their visages to the elements. The disconcerting side effect was that she could see the fright etched into the features of each of her warriors.

She did not blame them. They were light cavalry. Taught to circle around the enemy and cut off supply lines or raid unprotected caravans. Or even cut down running foot soldiers who were defenseless against a sword or axe to the back. Frontal charges against a far more numerous foe was beyond their area of expertise. Leave such foolhardy actions to the better protected and the better armed. Namely, knights.

But the Iron Angel had ordered it. And so had High Inquisitor Whitemane, now Commissar Whitemane.

She swallowed down her ire.

"Advance."

Her command rang out again. This time, she managed to inject a hint of confidence into her tone, though it was false and readily apparent to any who had the clarity to listen closely. It was a good thing then, that her men were just as nervous as her and possessed no such clarity at the moment.

A steady drumbeat of hoof against earth was heard as a hundred horses trotted forward in unison, their pace slightly quicker than before. A faint whinnying sounded down the line. One of her warriors had dug his spurs too deeply into his horse. His steed pranced ahead of the rest. She chastised him with a scathing glare. The rider mumbled an apology and reined in his mount, joining in with the rest of the formation. Elisa frowned deeply. The integrity of the line must be maintained. If the charge splintered before it hit home, then they would be riding towards their own graves. Of course, they were already riding towards their own graves. The Iron Angel had seen to it. Still, by preserving the length and depth of their assault, they had at least a chance to deal the Scourge a blow they would not soon forget before they expired under the weight of numbers.

Her orders from the angel had been explicit. Strike fast and hard, and then retreat. Fast and hard, she could do. But retreat. That was a word she abhorred more than any other. The Scarlet Crusade did not retreat. They did not turn their backs to the foe and run away screaming for their lives as often the soldiers of the Argent Dawn did. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their brothers and sisters in arms on the fields of battle. The warriors of the Crusade lived as one, fought as one, and died as one.

Retreat. Fall back. Run away. Withdraw. These words did not exist in the dictionary of Elisa Purethought. A bloody death on the battlefield earned praise and respect. A retreat, no matter how judicious it was, earned only scorn and vilification.

They were light cavalry, yes, but they were the Crusade's light cavalry. And Crusaders did not retreat, no matter the odds.

The Iron Angels orders were logically sound to any but those who belonged to her order. Strike a force of the enemy greater than yours and then withdraw before casualties ran high. Logical and pragmatic as one would expect from a decent general. However, the angel commanded men and women who were not the likes of the Argent Dawn or the Alliance. He commanded warriors who were stubborn in their ways and who would never take a single backwards step.

What she interpreted that order as, was simply strike a force of the enemy greater than yours.

"At the half-quick!" her voice cried out for the third time, higher in pitch and in volume.

A storm of whinnying broke out amongst the horses as their riders urged them into a steady gallop. A cacophony of metal upon metal followed as a hundred broadswords were drawn from their sheathes in flashes of radiant silver. Her own blade joined them, a three foot long weapon of edged steel that glistened feverishly in the dim light. She flourished it eagerly in one hand, testing the weight and reach that she already knew by heart.

The drumbeat had grown to a dull roar. Four hundred hooves clashing with the mossy ground in unison was not exactly stealthy. But a cavalry charge was never meant to be stealthy in application. It was meant to utterly destroy the foe in one hammering blow. Crush the enemy into dust beneath the iron shod shoes of hundreds of armored chargers. Tear the heart out of the opponent in one, devastating onslaught.

She did not have hundreds of knights under her command. She had a hundred riders who were better served as messengers and dispatchers than armored horsemen. They would have to do.

The Writhing Haunt grew closer. Elisa could make out the darkened farm sheds and dilapidated cottages that once housed happy, vibrant families. She refused to imagine just how many of those families waited for their arrival with hunger stretched on decayed lips. Her eyes crept to the shattered wooden fence that once served as a boundary to the farm, and not a long ways beyond, a rotten canister the size of a house that used to be the farmstead's granary. And in the middle of a field filled with the rotting remnants of crops unharvested, was the blackened frame of a plague cauldron.

Her teeth clenched tight in loathing. With any luck, the momentum of their charge would plough straight through the undead that lurked from view and directly into whatever foul monstrosity guarded the cauldron.

Garith's gait quickened, carrying his master slightly ahead of the rest. Elisa pointed her sword towards the Writhing Haunt. Towards darkness and despair. Towards their certain death. There was no time now for a speech and she was not sure if even she was capable of one. Only succinct battle orders could be given out. At least she was good at that.

"Maintain the formation. Do not split. We take them directly down the middle. Cut a swath through their ranks," her words were almost lost to the wind, but she persisted in saying them. A chorus of cheers from her riders told her they had heard. The fear that pounded in her breast disappeared momentarily, replaced with fierce and unshakable pride in her men. Though they dreaded what was to come, they would follow her through hell and back.

It was a shame then, that there was no coming back from this hell.

She saw the first of the undead. The figure was stooped and hunched, arms dragging listlessly down its sides as it stumbled clumsily about. It wore the garments of a farmer, though time and decay had worn most of the clothing down to mere rags. The unholy creature's skin had turned to a sickening hue of blotched green, covering its entirety from head to toe. The flesh from its left shoulder down to its wrist had been stripped clean, leaving nothing but the dirty white of polished bone.

Elisa dug her spurs into Garith and guided the stallion towards the zombie, causing a snort of complaint from her steed.

Three hundred paces. It was now or never.

"Forward Crusaders! Forward for the Light and for Lordaeron! Charge! Charge! CHARGE!"

A rolling wave of thunder accompanied her cry, the sound of a hundred thousand pounds of muscle hurtling towards their target. The earth shook and shuddered as iron hooves pummeled unmercifully at the ground, kicking up plumes of dirt that showered men and horse alike in grime. War bred steeds screamed shrilly in a mixture of terror and elation, pulling against the reins of their riders to cross the last stretch of land. The soldiers they carried added to the mayhem of noise, bellowing out war cries and battle chants with throats that soon grew raw from overuse.

It was glorious. Magnificent. The first and last charge of Captain Elisa Pureblade and her Scarlet Crusaders. It galled her that there was none to witness it save themselves and their foes.

The shattered fence was almost within reach. As was her target. She lifted her sword high with one gloved hand, the other clutching tightly the leather leash that was tethered to her mount.

The zombie turned slowly at their rapid approach. Elisa fought down the revulsion that threatened to upturn her stomach. One half of the creature's face was a gnawed mess of gristle and putrid meat. The gelatinous remnants of an eyeball drooled limply from a socket crawling with fat maggots, dripping viscous fluid down a sunken chest pock marketed by puncture wounds. Whoever had encountered this undead before had been ineffective in placing the blows necessary to kill it. Its plague filled jaws stretched open and a low, undulating groan issued from the cavernous dark of its orifice.

Her blade swept down in a low arc, all three feet of glistening steel singing towards its mark. The broadsword connected solidly with the base of the zombie's neck, hewing easily through bone and decomposed ligaments. The revolting skull sprang free from the shoulders, no longer bound in place by ropes of sinew, and cartwheeled into the air, spraying black ichor in concentric patterns. The body, now devoid of its head, continued in its forward motion for two more steps before the bulk of her riders smashed it to the ground and trampled it into an unrecognizable mush.

A tide of wretched moans answered the call of the unholy thing she had just killed. Garith whinnied a warning, but continued to carry his master stoically in the mad dash forward.

They stumbled towards the onward rushing mass of horsemen in ones, in twos, and in threes. Gaunt faces despoiled by the plague extended into silent screams. Maws unhinged into impossible angles to bite and feast on warm flesh. Hands akin to claws outstretched to tear men from their mounts. Unsteady legs propelled forms disfigured and shriveled from rot, jerking and spasming in a twisted parody of motion. Men, women, children. No more were these the loyal people of Lordaeron.

There must have been at least two hundred of the walking dead in the fields. Perhaps even more in the houses and barns.

The fear, strangely, was no longer there. In its place was adrenaline and hatred. Hatred for a foe so vile that she ached to destroy each and every one of them with her bare fists.

Eight zombies staggered directly into the path of the Scarlet riders. Five were men. Or once men. It was hard to tell from the advance state of decay that wreathed their frames. Two were women. One was a child perhaps not eleven years in age.

The front rank of mounted Crusaders crashed into the adult undead, ripping them from their feet and crushing their bodies under a tumult of stampeding hooves. The child, possessing of relatively little mass, was flung raggedly aside by the impetus of the charging riders. It landed heavily on its back, and the horrible snap of bone that followed told Elisa enough hurt had been dealt to its frail form that it would not soon get up. However, even in its immobilized state, the Scourge creature still retained the instinct to attack the living, and crawled forward with its remaining unbroken arm.

The feral visage leered at her until a stray hoof drove down on the child thing's head and pounded its skull into a pulp.

More came, swaying forward on wobbly feet, mouths agape, arms extended.

Elisa reached out from her saddle and brought her blade in another sweeping blow. The heavy weapon smashed into the side of a woman still in her undergarments, the keen edge hacking deep into her unprotected ribs. The sword dragged its way free, aided by both the strength in her arm and Garith's nonstop gallop. The spray of viscera and blood that followed was welcome, but the fact that the woman was still standing was not. The undead creature lashed out with a clawed hand consisting of only three digits. Thankfully, her charger had already cleared the zombie's range of attack, and the nailed fingers missed Garith by several comfortable inches. The Scourge thing gave a warbling moan of frustration, and took a step after her in pursuit. The forward line of Crusaders riding directly behind her slammed the woman onto her belly and ground the abomination into a flattened ruin beneath their hooves.

Keep moving forward. Keep moving forward. To falter is to die. To advance is to live. That part of the angel's orders had been clear at least.

Another lurched into her sword reach, features a ragged mess of bite marks. Her blade added to that mess, cleaving the wretched thing's head apart in a fountain of blood. The unholy creature swayed drunkenly on its feet before collapsing in a tangled heap. Garith snorted as two more of the undead were smashed aside by his galloping frame, their bodies lifted momentarily into the air before landing in piles of erratically jerking limbs. All three zombies disappeared from view under a mass of hurtling muscle.

Still more came. A larger group than those before. Much Larger. Sixty at least. Jaws filled with decomposed gum and rotten teeth snapped in the direction of the onrushing living. Eyes no more than fleshy orbs of goo fixated on the temporary respite for a never ending hunger. Deep-throated groans issued from rasping throats full of disease ridden phlegm, calling for more of their blasphemous kin to partake in the coming meal.

Elisa would give them a meal. A meal that consisted of the sharp end of her sword and the full length behind it.

Her steed drove into the undead mob, trilling in fear and in elation, bowling over those who were unfortunate enough to stand in his way. She had time for three hastily aimed blows before Garith surged clear of the ragged crowd. The first sheared off a zombie's arm, the broadsword neatly removing the limb from its shoulder in a mad geyser of blood. The second staved in an undead's skull, spilling the viscous fluid of brain matter onto the despoiled soil in a rapidly congealing pool. The third tore a deep horizontal gash in the abdomen of another, the wound weeping ichor down the monstrosity's tattered trousers.

One confirmed kill and two mortal wounds. Which meant only one kill. The minions of the Scourge ignored any injuries not immediately fatal.

The first line of her mounted warriors drove into the foul mass of decay with bone-shattering force. Those directly in the path of the whinnying horses were sent flying backwards, the momentum too much for their unsteady feet to bear. Those that managed to wobble into the gaps between each horsemen met a flurry of descending swords. Black blood erupted into the air, unrestrained and unleashed from missing heads, cloven shoulders, and amputated arms. A dozen zombies were struck down, falling to the ground in lifeless heaps. The unholy creatures left standing flailed futilely at their attackers, the speed of the chargers easily outmaneuvering their attempts to grapple and hold.

Then the second rank hit.

Once again, those zombies who were unlucky enough to be in the path of the war crazed steeds were run down and crushed under iron shod hooves. Blades shone and flashed in the dim light as they hacked down towards the undead who had escaped being trampled, smashing hard onto putrefied skulls and cutting deep into diseased flesh. Ichor spewed from twenty-five distinctive wounds, each one capable of rendering a man incapacitated. Only ten zombies crumpled, the unholy light gone from their eyes. The rest shrugged off the deep lacerations freshly dealt to their bodies and continued their vain attempts to bring down a mounted Crusader.

The second line was followed by the third. Slashing swords scored bloody gashes upon the stumbling frames of the dead, rending apart putrefied skin and corroded meat with gratifying ease. Eleven more of the Scourge mob fell to the powerful blows, their tortured souls freed from the evil thrall of the Lich King.

Of the sixty, seven still stood, drool flecked lips opened wide in ghastly moans. Thirty-four of the undead had been slain by vicious sword blows, black blood spilling from prone bodies. Nineteen had fallen under the hooves of the horses, snapped bone jutting from their battered forms.

The fourth rank tore into the last of the zombies with undisguised enthusiasm and felled all seven with grisly blade work.

Elisa smiled. This assault was going better than she had expected. Perhaps there was merit in the Iron Angel's orders after all.

A trio of writhing bolts of shadow magic flew past her, slicing into the formation of Crusaders and scattering the first rank completely. Three of her warriors toppled from their mounts, clutching at the fist sized holes torn into their bodies. Elisa gave a scream of dismay. This was the first time she had lost men under her command. Her vengeful eyes shot to the Scourge spellcaster who had so brazenly murdered her compatriots.

Clad in the tattered remnants of a mage's wear, the skeletal sorcerer held a weathered stave with a black crystal alight with shadow energies on top. Maniacal fire danced in its hallowed eye sockets, promising agonizing pain and unbearable suffering. Its mandible unhinged, and mocking laughter escaped, shrill and inhuman in tone.

"The Scourge beckons you, foolish Crusaders," it taunted.

Hatred burned in her heart. With a cry of rage she rammed her spurs into Garith, ignoring the whinny of protest that followed. Her steed responded, careening recklessly towards the grinning skeleton at a full gallop, outpacing her company in her lust for revenge. Cries of alarm issued from her men's lips, but she did not care. She just wanted to kill the undead spellcaster. Her blade rose high, eager to crash down upon the aberration's crown.

"Such impatience, fleshling. No matter. No matter. Such fickle emotions will be gone when I strip the life from your carcass and set you loose upon your comrades," the unholy creature cackled madly.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," she breathed quietly as she neared, her attention focused solely on the smirking macabre thing.

The Scourge sorcerer waved an indolent hand in her direction, all five skeletal digits pointing at patch of ground in front of her charging mount.

"Come warriors of bone. Come to the aid of your master. RISE!" the chant caused her to rein in Garith hesitantly, wary of the magics that had so easily slain her Crusaders.

The ground around her cracked and split, throwing up thick gouts of dirt. Limbs devoid of flesh shot forth from the sundered earth, too many to count, each clasping sword, axe, or mace. Skulls emerged from the warped land, grinning visages of pale bone rattling in the dark language of the dead. Shoulders followed, hunched as the skeletons struggled to free themselves from the call of their natural graves. Some wore semblances of armor, clad in archaic breastplates that dangled from their bodies by straps weathered with time or sported ancient war helms dented from blows struck eons ago. Most did not possess such protection, but their threat did not diminish with the lack of it.

Garith whinnied in panic as one of the freshly risen dead clawed at its front limbs with an emaciated arm, the other still trapped deep within the earth. The stallion reared up on its hind legs, nearly causing Elisa to tumble from her saddle, before bringing its hooves down on the exposed skull with great force. The head of the skeleton burst apart in an explosion of bone fragments, utterly crushed by her horse's frantic act of desperation.

She cursed as Garith bucked wildly under her legs. The fear had finally taken hold of the stallion's mind and it would take crucial seconds to calm him down. Seconds she did not have. Skeletal warriors pushed themselves from the ravaged ground, streams of freshly upturned soil cascading down their emaciated frames. They shuffled towards her terrified steed, corroded weapons swinging from bony fists. A wild strike from her sword decapitated the closest skeleton, sending the undead soldier's head skipping across the ground. Such a strike was one made out of pure luck rather than skill, as evidenced when her next blow missed completely its target, the frantic prancing of her steed having compounded her aim.

A skeleton shambled slowly forward, a coat of dilapidated mail draped over its body. The Scourge minion wielded a cruel looking bardiche with both hands, the hefty blade crusted with rust. Garith paid no heed to the encroaching risk and continued in his mad gyrating, still lost in the madness of terror in his own conscience. Elisa barked commands to the terrified horse to no avail and was forced to watch helplessly in horror as the undead warrior finally closed to within striking distance.

The bardiche rose in the air, ready to descend upon her and her mount. And then it dropped, along with the withered arm that held it. Lieutenant Hielan's return swing swept the skeleton aside, smashing it to the floor where it ceased to move. The rest of her men rode towards her, their swords descending in silver blurs that smote undead wherever they landed. Hielan reached out and managed to grab hold of her charger's reins, jerking Garith to an abrupt halt. The steed snorted and pawed the ground nervously, but the fear induced haze was gone from its eyes.

"Captain! Are you alright?" her lieutenant's face was swathed in concern.

She was about to reply when the mad laughter of the cauldron guardian once again screeched into her ears.

"How valiant the living are. It is a shame that such dramatic sentiments will not save you from the Scourge."

"Scatter! Scatter! Quickly!" Elisa cried out in alarm.

Another volley of shadow bolts struck the disorganized Crusader lines, chewing through what little armor they wore before creating bloody craters in vulnerable flesh. More of her warriors were ripped from their horses, their bodies displaying gory holes where the dark magics had done their gruesome work. Another oath sprang to her lips but before she could utter it, Hielan slumped in his saddle and swayed dangerously on his mount. Her arm shot out to steady her lieutenant only for the man to escape her grasp and collapse from his seat.

Dead eyes stared back at her, wide open in pain and surprise. Hielan's chest down to his waist was split open, showing the inner contents of his corpse to her horrified gaze.

"Come blessed children of the Lich King! Show our guests the hospitality as expected of the dead! Invite them to our homes so that they may share in our gift of immortality!" the cauldron lord gestured towards the row of ramshackle farmhouses and barns.

A wave of groans answered the undead mage's call. Elisa wrenched her attention from her slain lieutenant towards the inhuman sounds, just in time to see decayed hands batter down whatever remnants of doors and windows the ramshackle buildings still possessed. A horde of the mindless dead streamed from the dwellings, toothed jaws gnashing together in their need to feed. Hundreds when added together.

Elisa shouted a warning to her riders, but their hands were full with the skeletal warriors who continued to persist in harrying a better equipped foe. Garith trilled desperately, pulling on her reins to urge his master away from the oncoming zombies. She ignored her steed's worried whinnying. The warriors of the Scarlet Crusade did not retreat. Under any circumstances. There was no glory to be had in fleeing from the fight.

But what fame was there to be had in dying a futile death? And even worse, rising from said death as… one of them? The mere thought was horrendous to her.

The zombies continued in their slow and steady pace towards potential meals, wobbling and jerking in their twisted gait. She could picture the mayhem these walking cadavers would inflict upon her men, who were already locked in a fearsome melee with the skeletons and could not easily turn to combat this new threat. With the momentum of their charge gone, the wretched ghouls would attack her men from the back, pull their struggling forms to the ground where many maws would tear great chunks of meat from still writhing bodies. She could not allow that to happen. Would not allow that to happen.

The Iron Angel's orders leapt into her mind, this time all of it. Strike hard and fast, then retreat. Retreat. Retreat would save her men, but it would sully her honor. To stay would kill her men, but would leave her honor intact. She bit her lip. Indecision plagued her conscience.

The clink of plated armor reached her ears, and her eyes searched for the source. She gasped as her gaze focused on the tattered uniform of a Lordaeron footman, torn and frayed from ragged claw marks. The former soldier's helm was gone, displaying a countenance locked in the last moments of death. The man's mouth was contorted in a silent scream of terror, and his pupils were rolled back in their sockets. The pieces of flesh missing from his face and the rest of his decayed frame told much about what caused his death. Now, the footman walked with the very creatures that had once been the reason for his fright.

If she stayed, her corpse would join this soldier to forever haunt the Plaguelands. There was no glory in that.

She understood now, with a start, the Iron Angel's plan. They were to lure the undead from this place, not fight and die to the last man for a ragged patch of earth. They were the bait for the Scourge to bite, not the spear tip of the assault she had once thought. If she had realized this sooner, would the lives of her men and that of Hielan be saved? Elisa did not know, but she would at least make sure the others under her command would live to see another day.

Her spurs dug into Garith's flank, and with a pull of her reins, she guided the stallion towards the still ongoing battle between Crusader and skeleton. Her steed snorted gratefully, glad to be away from the approaching tide of zombies. She rode towards the raging melee, her sword descending in furious arcs on the leering skulls of the dead. A string of words tore from her throat, words minutes ago she would not have uttered.

"Crusaders! Fall back! Fall back! Back to the Iron Angel and the Bulwark!"

* * *

Crumbling walls and ruined towers greet my gaze, sprouting from the ground to form a circle of protection around the dilapidated abodes that long since have been abandoned. My visor magnifies the view, and I make out wretched, misshaped creatures wondering the streets in mindless stupor. Crawling, spider things shuffle forward on long insectoid legs, alongside giant slabs of fat wielding what appears to be weighty cleavers. A miasma of death shrouds this city, the eerie quiet unsettling to those who stood next to me.

I growl silently behind my faceplate. Blasphemous beings, these so-called Scourge. I will make sure none of them escape the Emperor's Wrath.

"So this is Andorhal. The base of the undead scum," I remark simply.

"Yes it is. Once it was a proud bastion of Lordaeron, and now it is reduced to mostly rubble by Arthas and his minions," Whitemane replies, a tinge of sadness in her tone, "A worse fate for such a mighty city, I cannot imagine."

I shake my head slightly at the former Inquisitor's statements. This Andorhal was anything but mighty. Compared to the many hives of the Imperium, where millions of inhabitants would be crammed into spires many kilometers in height, the city so highly venerated by Whitemane would be no more than a tiny village. However, it is solely a matter of perspectives, and such ignorance on her part can be forgiven.

"What more can you tell me, Commissar? Disposition of the enemy forces? Numbers?" I ask.

"That I do not know, Iron Angel. My visits to Andorhal were few and far between when I was a child. Even given my estimates, there is no guarantee that the Scourge has not reinforced the place."

"Seven thousand zombies. Two thousand skeleton soldiers. One thousand ghouls," a calm voice sounds behind me, "Four score abominations. Three hundred crypt fiends. One hundred Dark Riders. And of course, the lich, Araj the Summoner."

My eyes narrow spitefully at the xeno who had interjected herself into the conversation. The elf, Malicio or Malicia, or some sort. I do not remember nor care for the names of traitors to their own kind. She meets my glare with tired reluctance, betraying no fear on her delicate face.

"Elven filth! The Iron Angel directed his question to me, not you. Silence yourself and be thankful the great man that stands before you is merciful in his actions," Whitemane snarled.

The alien recoiled as if struck, though it appears to be out of reflex rather than genuine dread.

"Enough, Commissar. I know that you abhor the xeno as much as I do, and that is worthy of praise. However, these are trying circumstances, and thus, I ask you keep your hatred in check."

She grudgingly nods in consent to my request, though her stare never leaves the elf. My attention focuses back on Malician.

"Are you sure of those numbers, xeno? I wish not to wage battle with faulty intelligence," it is difficult to keep the loathing from my voice, but I manage it somehow.

"Yes," the elf points to the ruined city from our vantage point, "I was once privy to the troop movements of the Scourge in the Plaguelands during my unwilling stay in Scholomance. Andorhal itself used to possess merely the mindless dead, or as you like to call them, zombies. However, when an attack by the Alliance against the city's rear almost overwhelmed the undead, Araj personally ordered Andorhal to be reinforced."

"How did that surprise assault fail?" I prod the former Scourge alien.

"Not enough momentum. And superior numbers. The initial strike was headed by a band of brave adventurers. Though they managed to reap a decent tally of kills, they were in the end, surrounded and torn apart by the former inhabitants of the city. The Alliance soldiers who followed managed to cut through the undead to retrieve the remnants of their bodies before being forced to withdraw due to the weight of numbers."

'We will not make that same mistake then."

"We? Surely you do not mean to attack Andorhal with only us at your back?"

I turn to regard the man who had dared question the validity of an Astartes. It is the same officer who first kneeled before me at The Bulwark. Captain Perrine. The visor display of my helm helpfully inputs a targeting reticule on his face. I ignore it for now.

"And what if my intent is exactly that?"

The man's bearded features displays uneasiness as he speaks.

"Well, lord, we would be soundly defeated. There are ten thousand of them, and barely one thousand of us. We are vastly outnumbered as such. It would be better if we were to obtain assistance from Hearthglen. Highlord Fordring's knights would be much welcome within our ranks."

"To admit defeat in the face of the foe is to blaspheme against the Emperor, captain. I advise you to not utter such sacrilege in my presence again."

Perrine's countenance twists into an exasperated scowl.

"Great lord, with all due respect, one does not simply walk into Andorhal. The city is guarded by more than just undead. There is an evil there that does not sleep. The Lich King's minions are ever watchful for intrusions against their unholy bastion, and would know of our approach long before we can attack. The land within is a barren, desolate, wasteland, devoid of life and ridden with the marks of the death plague. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with only a thousand men could we do this."

I frown at the officer's declaration. Either this man is a coward who shirks from duty, or one of those who care too deeply for the lives of his soldiers. Neither are preferable to me.

"I do not intend to merely walk into Andorhal, you can be rest assured of that," I smile in amusement at the temporary relief that wreathes his face, only to disappear at my next words, "I intend to destroy it utterly. Tear its buildings apart stone by stone. Burn its twisted inhabitants in the fires of absolution. Sow its fields with the forms of the newly dead. No, captain. My journey into that place cannot be described as a simple walk."

"You must see reason, Iron Angel! As a commander of men you should surely know the consequences of such a foolhardy action!" Perrine cries out in consternation.

A commander of men. Damn this captain. He has elicited the memories of my dead brothers once more in my mind. Nine Marines I once held sway over, the finest warriors I have ever had the honor of leading. How sincerely I wish they were here. With them by my side I could wipe Andorhal from the face of this world within hours, if not minutes. But they are with the Emperor now. And all because of my foolish decision at Aegudun Hive.

A grimace forms on my lips, full of guilt and remorse. What would I give to have Ullanxes by my side again. A sudden coldness erupts from my left pauldron, jolting me from my reverie. I absently brush the spot with a gauntleted hand, before meeting the anxious gaze of Perrine.

"Your definition of reason vastly differs from mine, captain. I see reason as the extermination of all enemies of mankind, whether they be alive or dead. I see reason as grinding the opposition to dust, so that they may never again threaten humanity. I see reason as striking deep into the lair of the enemy, so that they will know they are never safe from the Emperor's Fury. Ensure your reason is the same as mine, Perrine, and we will have no more quarrels over this subject."

The officer opens his mouth to argue but before the words can come, a Scarlet Guardsman sprints up the hill we are on and halts in front of me with a satisfactory salute.

"My liege! Captain Elisa is back, and she asks me to tell you her attack has succeeded!"

* * *

The spectral hand slid from Avarian's shoulder plate, falling steadily until it rested by the side of its owner.

"He cannot see us brother. Nor hear us. The veil between the living and the dead is a barrier not meant to be breached by conventional means," the voice was old and filled with wisdom, echoing smoothly among the nine ethereal forms.

The hand rose, the size of an Astartes fist, until it clenched in front of a black breastplate embellished with bleached bones.

"No, he cannot. But I wish he could."

"As do we all, brother. As do we all. There should be no guilt hanging over his head," one of the phantoms murmured, the red glow from his battle helm's eye slits casting an eerie light upon the others, "What we did that day had to be done. I hold him with no ill regard towards my death."

"Indeed, our deaths were magnificent and worthy of remembrance," a fourth apparition grinned behind a sneering faceplate etched in embers, "And did not the Emperor reward us for our faithful service in life? To transcend from the grave to once again do battle in His name. I see no greater glory than that."

"He would reprimand you, brother, for your zealotry if he was one of us."

"Aye. He may well do so. But he is not one of us. It is not yet his time to kneel before Him on Terra to be judged. When that time comes, I can only hope the Emperor grants him the same blessing as He did to us, so that once more the Honored Ones will bring death and ruin to the foes of humanity."

A fifth voice joined in, quiet and subtle, but tinged with menace.

"No longer are we the pride of the chapter, brother. That time is behind us and cannot be relived. We are now but mere ghosts walking the realms of the dead, nothing more. Both blessed and cursed by our condition… The Emperor truly works in mysterious ways."

"Ways that cannot be questioned," a looming figure taller than the rest boomed loudly, "Our liege has given us a new means to wage war. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Ghosts and apparitions, we may be, but I know damned well my weapon can still burn heretics."

The plate clad behemoth lifted the bulky shape of a heavy flamer into view, the blackened barrel dripping with liquid promethium.

"That is true, brother. But I must question our existence. What manner of ghosts are we that our implements of war can still harm the living?"

"Such a question is for philosophers and scribes. Not for men of action such as we. Let the hounds of the Inquisition question our being. I do not care for their conniving methods. As long as my fists are stained with the blood of traitors and heretics, I am satisfied with my station."

"Well said brother. It does not matter what we have become. Only that our existence serves the Emperor's end and that of the Imperium's."

A chorus of assents sounded from eight phantasmal helms decorated with images of death and flame.

The wraithlike hand left its place by the chestplate and moved into the middle of the ring of phantoms. It was joined by eight others, armored palms clasping on top of each other in a symbol of brotherhood.

"Then, brothers. We will await the time we are needed. And when that time comes, the craven and the unjust that persist on this world will learn to fear the specters of the dead. We are the Damned, the Lost Ones. Wrathful avengers beyond the realms of the living given form by the Great Lord of Mankind. Oblivion is our gift to the foe, the screams of their dying our herald. To those loyal to the Golden Throne we shall extend a helping hand, to those who are not we shall extend the tip of our blades. This I decree as an immortal warrior of vengeance and an everlasting protector of humanity. Come brothers! For the Emperor beyond the point of death!"

Eight voices joined the first, each filled with the spectral quality of those who had ceased to be.

"For the Emperor beyond the point of death!"


	33. The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note: For those of you who have not realized yet, the Space Marine "specters" from the last chapter are members of the Legion of the Damned. There are two different portrayals of these ghostly Astartes by Games Workshop. One is that these Marines were once the battle-brothers of the Fire Hawks, who after being lost within the Warp, became mutated to the extent that their bodies would slowly decay with time. However, being Space Marines, the Fire Hawks refused to end their tormented lives, and instead became the Legion of the Damned, fighting until the rot completely destroyed their forms. The second portrayal is that these mysterious warriors are the souls and spirits of dead Astartes who have been given corporeal form by the Emperor to once again wage war for humanity's sake. In this story, the Legion of the Damned are the second of these two portrayals.**

_Thule: It's not that he's foolish. He's just very, very confident, which all Space Marines are._

_Salle1980: Thank you!_

_: He hasn't accepted the night elf at all. All he's done is simply laud her for her bravery, which Astartes are known to do. Avarian still pretty much detests Keina in all regards. The story just hasn't shown that yet. As for which version of night elf, it would be the WoW one._

_Ranger24: The Argent Dawn and the Ebon Blade will appear around chapter 50ish._

_Soulless Reader: Well, the Legion of the Damned always appear on battlefields that are of extreme significance to the Imperium. The fact that there is a squad ghosting Avarian speaks volumes of how important Azeroth is._

_Pinto: Depends on what you mean by awesomeness. The speech kind or the combat kind? :P_

_Overdrive1: I have not watched Lord of the Rings for at least four years. However, the "walk into Andorhal" part was influenced by the movie. The cavalry charge, though, was not. In response to the Legion names, some of the traitor Legions, such as the Emperor's Children, the Thousand Sons, and the Word Bearers, were considered to be extremely loyal to the Emperor by their peers, and were deemed to be utterly incorruptible. Sadly, that was not the case, as the events of the Horus Heresy proved._

_Gideon020: Massacre? Yes. Soon? Probably not._

_Grey Knight Stern: The "walk in Andorhal" part was influenced by LoTR._

_Prince Naso: The Eldar have already helped our hero once. Being the arrogant arseholes they are, they won't do it again. However, the Scarlet Guard will have their lasguns. Just not soon. :P_

_Will of the Emperor: Your assumption is correct._

_The Hive: In an omake, absolutely. In this story, no._

_Hand of Sand: Thanks! There is a significant difference of someone voluntarily giving themselves to Chaos and someone forced to do Chaos's bidding. Varian is not one of those who would be easily swayed by promises of power, and hence, will probably be forced into compliance by the Sorcerer._

_Raile21: The Curse of Unbelief does not affect Space Marines because their bodies are capable it. However, the most powerful of Nurgle's plagues are fully capable of turning an Astartes into an oozing pile of sludge. _

_Mephisteron: There will be a Land Speeder segment. But that will be in the future._

_Emperor Chronicler: In the end, Avarian's thoughts towards the Tauren will probably go along with your description. As for abhumans, our Space Marine will consider them less blasphemous than xenos, but still lesser than normal humans._

_Peanuckle: Well, there have been beastmen regiments within the Imperial Guard. They resemble much like Tauren and are considered to be abhumans by those they serve with. _

_Yoshomo: The Ebon Blade's way of warfare would fit how a Space Marine would conduct a campaign almost perfectly. Being utterly merciless towards the foe and accomplishing the mission at all costs and what not. However, Death Knights are still technically undead, which puts up an immediate barrier between Avarian and them in terms of trust and alliance._

_Gforce member45: The dreadnought will appear. But once again, that's going to be later._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: You'll see the battle commence next chapter._

_Vashanti: Twelve thousand against one thousand actually, as evidenced in this chapter. :P_

_Xynth: Well, the chapters are getting steadily longer. The first few chapters were roughly around one thousand words long, the next few two to three thousand. It just goes up from there._

_Lazylegionspark: Starcraft Marines are a pale imitation to what a Warhammer Space Marine is. And their armor is certainly not more advanced than the power suit of an Astartes. Remember that the universe of Starcraft is not that far distant in the future, while the 40k universe resides forty thousand years away from the present. To put things into perspective, one Battle Barge with, lets say, three companies worth of Astartes, could easily curbstomp the united Terran factions. Hell, a Space Marine would think of fighting the Zerg as a stroll around the park compared to weathering an onslaught of Tyranids. _

_Timewatch: Thanks!_

Chapter 32

The tide of wretched moaning haunted her ears, steadily growing louder, steadily growing nearer. Each groan had its own tenor, from high pitched, almost screech like noises, to low, guttural snarls. It was not hard for her imagination to discern what creatures those unholy noises originated from. Zombies. Mortal shells of long dead people ravaged with the blight of decay. Raised from graves in great throngs by the foul necromancers of the Scourge to serve as frontline fodder for the Lich King's armies. Twisted puppets of undeath set loose upon the living by Arthas's evil. Some would have pitied the fates of such miserable slaves to the former prince of Lordaeron. But not her. She hated them for what they had done to her kingdom and to her home.

Commissar Sally Whitemane wrenched her gaze from the horizon where the ragged cacophony of groans came, and turned her attention back towards her subordinates. Her captains were huddled in a circle, whispered words flying thick and fast between them. She was no fool, and knew immediately what such cagey statements entailed. Only Elisa stayed out of the impromptu meeting, but that was most likely due to her being exhausted from the raid on the Writhing Haunt than out of loyalty to her and the Iron Angel.

Whitemane's lips curled into a fierce scowl. They had shamed her, these officers under her command. She had expected them to fall into line with the arrival of the angel. After all, did not they too witness the glory within the data slate discovered by Arcanist Doan? But instead, she was met with near mutiny and accuses of betrayal. And to make matters worse, her captains were openly questioning the Iron Angel.

It suddenly occurred to her that she did not know the giant's name. There had been no time to ask, as the angel had immediately taken Doan into his confidence after the debacle with the Scourge elf. She had wanted to be included in the angel's private meeting with the Arcanist as well, but had not the courage to ask. Though it vexed her that as the leader of all Scarlet forces within Tirisfal, she was not privy to the Iron Angel's plans, she reasoned that there must be a reason for his secrecy. And who was she, a mere servant of the Emperor, to ask for an explanation from one of His own flesh and blood? No, she would not pry into matters not meant for her eyes and ears. Faith is pure when it is blind and unquestioned. And was it not her faith that the angel commended? But, surely the angel would not be so secretive as to hide his name from her?

She would ask when the time was right. But certainly not now. Not when she had defiant subordinates to rein in.

Three steps and she was within the human circle, fierce anger etched onto her face.

"What manner of assembly is this that your leader is not invited?" her voice carried cold menace icy enough to rival the glaciers of Icecrown.

Her captains jumped in surprise at her sudden intrusion, and more than one looked away in humiliation. She took note of this, but ignored it. The guilty glances shot towards all except her told her all she needed to know.

"That was not our intent, High Inquisitor," Captain Melrache stated, and a glimmer of displeasure passed through her body at the mention of her former title, "we were just conversing together about the upcoming battle."

"More like our upcoming deaths," grunted Perrine, his features a mask of disapproval.

"If you have something to say, Captain, then say so," her tone dripped with sarcasm, "I am afraid that should you keep in your words, you would soon explode from the effort."

The blonde haired man's chest swelled out as though if about to release a verbal tirade, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder by Vachon. Instead, it was Rhiana who spoke for him.

"With all due respect, Inquis- Commissar," the captain saw her superior's irritation and quickly changed her way of address, "all of us have some doubt about the ability of the Iron Angel. Though we have seen the mighty warriors displayed in the slate months ago, and though undoubtedly this man belongs within their vaunted ranks, he is still but one man."

"The Emperor was but one man. Now he sits upon a regal throne of gold, the most powerful being in the universe. Do you deny His greatness as well, Rhiana?"

"No, I do not. But what can a body suspended from death on a relic throne do for us in our time of need? Indeed, if the Emperor is almighty and all-knowing, certainly he would have prevented the Scourge from ravaging our lands? I respect the Imperial Faith as your priests have called it, but I will remain devoted to the Light."

"The Emperor is the Light. Of that, there is no question. You remain chained to your old ways, and I find that disturbing. Did not our venerable mage, Doan, foretell of the coming of the Iron Angel? You were one of those who believed him, Rhiana. As were you Vachon. And you, Melrache. Why now when an agent of the Emperor comes to grant us salvation, do you choose to turn away from the path of righteousness?"

The three officers mentioned had the decency to look ashamed, but were interrupted before they could make sound.

"This path will lead us not to salvation as you describe it, but utter ruin! We are blasphemers already for listening to the rhetoric of a demagogue," Perrine could not hold his temper any longer, and spat the words out with fearful spite.

Whitemane's brows creased into an impatient frown. She had not known Perrine for long when he was placed under her command. She had not the time to interview him exclusively, for her orders from High General Abbendis had stressed that speed was vital for establishing posts within Tirisfal Glades. Her attitude towards the captain then, was respectful and even somewhat reverential, for Perrine had been recommended by the Grand Crusader himself. Her attitude now, was anything but respectful.

"It is you who is a blasphemer, Perrine! Had the events of the Horus Heresy travelled to this world, then you would have thrown in your lot with the daemon spawn of Chaos! I do not know what thoughts against the angel you have in your head, captain, but you will cease them at once!"

"I hold no ill will towards our new found friend," the disdain in Perrine's voice spoke otherwise, "and I certainly am not a lackey of the Burning Legion! I am a stalwart warrior of the Scarlet Crusade, and steadfastly loyal to the Light. If that means I must stand chastised and scorned for my fidelity, then so be it."

"Perrine is right, Inquisitor," Vachon gestured in the direction of the defiant officer, "I cannot join the Scarlet Guard without doubt, nor can I partake in the coming battle without grave misgivings. The fact that the angel has devoid us of much of our support speaks negatively towards his grasp of tactics."

Whitemane hesitated. Doan and his students of magic would not be available for combat for a full day at least. They had worked for the entire night on something the angel had devised, and subsequently, were too exhausted to be of any use in the coming battle.

"Indeed! Our mages are too tired from whatever exertions the angel made them do yesterday. Without a group of spellcasters at our back, we will be doomed," Melrache added, "especially against such an overwhelming force of the foe."

The dark skinned captain gave Elisa a sideways glance to confirm his statements. The cavalry commander, in turn, nodded tiredly before speaking.

"Yes. Captain Melrache speaks the truth. We lured the masses of the undead from the Writhing Haunt, by my estimates, a thousand at least. Added to that is the cauldron guardian, who appeared to be a skilled necromancer capable of summoning the dead. But that is not all. As we retreated, we unfortunately managed to catch the attention of those Scourge habiting Felstone Field as well. Without a doubt both undead hordes will meet and engage us on a united front. By my estimations, we face at least two thousand."

Perrine snorted in derision.

"Even before our siege against Andorhal begins, we face a battle in which we are vastly unequipped to fight."

As though if supporting the insubordinate officer's statements, a fresh wave of groaning sounded from the distance, disclosing to the living their deaths were near.

"Silence, captain," Whitemane growled, ignoring the haunting calls of the dead to the best of her ability, "numbers alone do not make a battle won. Besides, we have near a thousand warriors of our own to drive back the enemy. The odds against us are steep, but can be overcome."

"Not one thousand, I'm afraid," Rhiana admitted, "my two hundred men and women will not be joining you in this fight."

"What? Why not? Do you cast away your allegiance to me?" surprise spread across her features.

"No, of course not. I would follow you to the ends of this world, Commissar. But the soldiers under my authority are almost purely militia, and their loyalties lie with their families, not to the Scarlet Crusade or the Scarlet Guard. They will not risk their deaths and leave their spouses and children unattended."

Her subordinate waved a hand towards a wagon train filled to the brim with furniture and décor, and the multitude of men and women dressed in civilian garb idling by the wooden constructs. She saw with annoyance a multitude of children chasing each other between the legs of their parents, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Campfires and tents were strewn haphazardly about, a startling contrast to the orderly temporary dwellings of the soldiers next to them.

Whitemane shot a look of reproach towards her captain, demanding an explanation.

"Farmer Solliden expected good news from Hearthglen and Tyr's Hand, namely that the Plaguelands are secure," Rhiana continued, "and that was the only reason he was willing to commit his men. Hearing that no such fortune exists, he now refuses to place them under our command. I fear what little warriors of my own I have, are woefully inadequate to replace their loss, my lady."

The former High Inquisitor ground her teeth together in frustration. That would mean eight hundred instead of a thousand, and though the militia of the Solliden Farmstead could not compare to her own warriors in terms of martial might, they were at least dependable and would not easily waver in the face of adversity. Add the unavailability of the Scarlet spellcasters, and their numbers shrank to a mere seven hundred.

Perrine easily caught on to his commander's uncertainty and grinned victoriously.

"Two thousand against seven hundred? That's three to one," the rebellious captain smirked.

"More than that," Elisa sighed, "you forget that they have a necromancer on their side. Any undead we slay will pick themselves back up as long as the dead-raiser still lives."

"Then six to one?" Perrine's smile spread wider.

"Even worse than that, I'm afraid. The Scourge are relentless and inexorable in their advance. They do not tire, whilst we inevitably will. Against such an unrelenting tide, and against a sorcerer capable of replenishing their ranks, our arms would long ache from exhaustion before we can even begin to dent their numbers."

"It is a fearful odds," grunted Melrache.

"If only we had here but five hundred men from those in Hearthglen that do no work today," sighed Vachon, a gloved hand clasped tightly over the hilt of his rapier.

Whitemane's mouth parted to utter the words of censure that her captains so richly deserved. Before her lips could put sound to thought, a stentorian tone interrupted her.

"Who's he that wishes so?"

All of them swiveled on their feet at the sound of the noble voice, and were met with the sight of the Iron Angel stomping regally towards them. The man's helm was off, resting in the crook of one black plated arm, baleful eye slits a dull maroon instead of the usual bright crimson. His expression was unreadable, set against a pale background, cerulean pupils wide in a piercing glare. Those near him stepped back, faces displaying fear and awe, dwarfed by his immense form and intimidated by his daunting appearance. Massive gauntlets clutched the bulky gun that shot thunder from its barrel and the long, brutal looking sword with serrated teeth for an edge he once had pinned to his side.

"Captain Vachon?" the officer mentioned shuddered as the angel's stare settled on him, "I am surprised. Such words I would have expected to come from Perrine."

Legs thick as tree trunks easily propelled the giant to within their vicinity; long strides that would have left the most agile of them behind in their wake.

"No, my fair captain," the angel continued, a glimmer of amusement passing across his face, "if we are marked to die, then we shall meet the Reaper's Scythe without fear or remorse. And if we are to live, then the fewer men, the greater share of honor is there to be had. Emperor's Will! I pray thee, wish for not one man more."

The Iron Angel halted in his gait, his figure a looming wall of black metal.

"Proclaim it, Vachon, through my decree, that he who has no stomach for this fight… let him depart," a broad arm swept towards the distant Bulwark, and their gazes trailed the motion automatically, "his passport shall be made, and gold for convoy put into his purse. He will suffer no harm from us who remain brave against the odds, nor will he suffer the insults from those greater and more courageous than he. He should remain unmolested, but I for one, would not die in that man's company who fears his fellowship to die with us."

Azure eyes lifted to the skies as the giant tilted his head towards the heavens.

"The Emperor protects. That is a common saying among the citizens and soldiers of the Imperium," those intelligent eyes flickered back towards the assembled officers, causing shivers of anticipation to creep along their spines, "Such a phrase is foolish at best and inaccurate at worst. The Emperor does protect. But his guardianship falls upon those who help themselves, not to those who flounder in their own misery and cry to others for assistance. The former is venerated and revered by the masses as the heroes they are, their names forever etched in the history of mankind. The latter is hated and vilified by those who remember them, and are forgotten, their memory eternally lost with none to revere them. The choice of which path to take is yours, my guardsmen, but know that the Golden Throne's radiance shines upon only one of those two paths."

The Iron Angel turned, and strode towards Solliden's caravan. Whitemane followed, as did her captains. It was instinct to tread the path the angel walked. They could not fight it.

"You say the numbers are against us? I say they are for us," the angel spoke as he walked, his baritone voice drawing man, woman, and child towards his gargantuan frame, "More enemies means more glory to be earned on the battlefield. More foes means more sacrifices to be piled to the Altar of the Emperor. Never forget that it is only through war that our worship to Him on Terra is made sanctified. The more of the enemy, the better. Let them come at us, in their thousands or hundreds of thousands. All the same they will fall beneath our blades. We will pile the enemy dead in mountains at this battle's end, a glorious tribute to the Father of Mankind!"

The giant stopped as he reached the wagon train, and they too stopped. A spell was being woven by this imposing warrior, a spell that lifted their spirits and drove away the gloom that had all but surrounded them. Whitemane felt her body quiver with expectation. What she would give to have the same talent for speech this man commanded at but a whim.

"Numbers? Hah. You have not seen numbers until you have fought the blasphemy that is the Tyranids, of whom a single splinter fleet could cover a world with a never ending tide of chitin. What can a mere two thousand creatures, diseased and weakened, compare to that? The Imperium has stood against invasions a thousand times that number in ten millennia of continuous bloodshed. And yet, do we not still stand tall amongst this unforgiving galaxy, our backs unbent, our heads unbowed? The empire of humanity survives because we, as a race, will stand shoulder to shoulder when those who seek to destroy us come for our lives. We prevail against a universe that would see us dead, because one man would willingly sacrifice his own existence to save that of another. It pains me then, that I have encountered men here who do not, will not, ascribe to this tenet. Does my description of you, Solliden, do you credit?"

A hundred necks craned to see the man mentioned, a barrel-chested farmer who would have been better suited in a panoply of plate than the dirt-strewn clothing of a land-tiller. Solliden, to his credit, did not falter under the steely gaze of the angel, nor did he balk at the scathing attention he received from her warriors.

"I will not have my men die on a fool's errand. They have families to feed and protect," the farmer protested vehemently, "Should the lives of my militia be forfeit, then what is to become of their loved ones? If we are to fall in the coming battle, the Scourge will set their sights on the helpless, with no one there to protect them. I will not allow that to happen."

"Your words are true, Solliden. If we were to die, the undead would surely slaughter those you wish so keenly to protect," a thin smile tugged on the giant's lips, grim and resolute, but not without mirth, "The obvious answer to this conundrum then, would be… don't die."

A faint wave of laughter emitted from the gathered crowd. The angel's declaration was an obvious one. Even those blinded by faith like the myrmidons could understand such a simple explanation.

"Even if you were to live, Solliden, and with your militia to protect the weak, I must ask you this. Is it your wish to exist forever in fear of the Scourge horde? Is it your desire to see your descendants cower in their hiding holes at the mere mention of the walking dead? Is it your aspiration," a black armored arm swept to the dozens of children peeking from the assembled throng, "to see the future of your generation stunted and broken by a threat that could have been curtailed on this very day? Nay, Solliden. Your thoughts are in the right place, but your way of acting upon those thoughts is grievously wrong."

The host swelled in size, warriors and civilians alike crowding each other to gain view of the giant and hear his words.

"But I will not stop you from leaving. Nor will I insult your memory after you have gone. The limits of courage differ from man to man, and today if your limit has been reached, then so be it. Return back to your farms and dwellings, and seek the protection of mortal devices. Go, Solliden, with my blessing."

The farmer's weathered features creased into an uncertain frown.

"I am not a coward, if that is what you think," he proclaimed loudly, "I just do not wish to see my men bloodied by a fight we cannot win."

"I did not say you were a coward, tiller of the land," the Iron Angel boomed in response, "but neither did I say we could not win. The exact opposite. We can win. We will win. We will win because we are the righteous few against the wicked many. We will win because we have justice and virtue on our side. We will win because the Immortal Emperor watches over us all. We will win because there exists nothing in this universe that can stand against the determination of man. We will win… But, what of you, Farmer Solliden? What answers will you have for your men when they learn of our victory? How will you carry yourself around those who once held you so high in esteem, knowing full well your lack of commitment has sullied their honor?"

The angel strode towards Solliden, and the crowd parted for him like a wave breaking upon rock, none willing or foolish enough to impede his progress. The farmer shrank back slightly at the giant's approach, but his visage remained impressively impassive.

"Tell me, planter of the earth, when you lie on your deathbed, many years from now. Would you be willing to trade all of days, from this day to that, for once chance, just one, to stand before our enemies, side by side with your brothers in arms, shoulder to shoulder with men whose valor spans the stars, and look our foe in the eye and proclaim then and there, for all to be heard, that we, as a species, as the rightful masters of this universe, against the face of whatever adversity the galaxy may spawn, WILL NEVER FALTER!"

A rousing cheer erupted from a thousand mouths, akin to rolling waves of thunder. Whitemane joined the tumultuous show of emotion, her own voice lost within the roaring din. She was dimly aware of the night elf the angel had shown approval to standing not three feet from her, as well as the rest of the nonhuman gaggle the Argent paladin had recruited. They had joined the crowd to hear the giant's speech, and were similarly affected. It was shocking to her that she would not have noticed their arrival sooner, but it was a testament to just how influential the power of dialogue the giant could wield.

Her gaze roamed disapprovingly towards the elven female, noting with disgust the parts of her body that deviated from the holy form of humanity. She had always marveled at the ignorance of the people of Stormwind towards the perfection that existed within all mankind, and their willingness to ally with lesser beings such as the dwarves and the elves. It was a good thing then, that the angel would never think of trusting these low-life riffraff. Men were capricious in nature, especially towards those of the opposite gender, be they of the same race or that of another. The metal clad warrior was an angel, yes, but he was still a man.

She would ensure that no opportunities would befall the angel that could tempt him from his path of purity.

"Would you be willing to do that, Solliden? Would you be willing to come back here, and spit defiance against our foe, one last time?" the giant asked, his timbre deeply resonating across the gathered throng.

"By Uther's Hammer, I know not where you will lead us to," the farmer looked up, his neck forced to crane upwards to meet the Iron Angel eye to eye, "but yes, I am with you sire! My life, and those of my men, are yours!"

"Your lives belong to the Emperor, not I. It is He who will guide you in life and judge you in death. He who sits a top the Golden Throne. He smiles down upon you now tiller of the land, for your willingness to risk your own safety to resist the enemies of humanity… And His approval encompasses us all!"

The angel strode past the newly converted Solliden, and the crowd once more parted to allow him passage.

"For the Emperor's approval is easily won. He is easily pleased, the Immortal Lord of Mankind," long, loping steps carried the giant to the very edges of the mass of his enthralled audience, "He asks not for blind adulation or zealous conviction. He asks not of us, for material possessions and petty gifts like the heathen gods of old. He asks not for sacrifices to be made in his honor, for the blood of his children to be shed upon a priest's altar. He asks, merely of us, my guardsmen, to stand proud against our foes."

The saw toothed sword swept towards the horizon, where the faintest figures of the first of the stumbling undead could be seen.

"And there our foes lie! Twisted by vile sorceries and controlled by even viler masters! They will come, expecting fear in our hearts and doubt in our minds, not knowing that the Emperor's Light shines within us all! They will descend upon us, eager to kill, eager to slay, expecting weakness in their victims, not knowing that our sword arms have been strengthened by the blessings from the Great Father of Mankind! They will come, confident in their victory, sure of their triumph, for our blood."

The angel's bladed weapon suddenly erupted into a screeching wail, the jagged spikes churning in unison until they appeared as a continuous moving blur. His voice carried to them all, clear and pristine through the furious gnashing of metal teeth.

"But they will drown in their own."

Their roars of approval shook the very earth.

* * *

"The Sons of Horus, the Death Guard, the Thousand Sons, the Emperor's Children, the Night Lords, the Alpha Legion, the World Eaters, you have been all taught to hate, and rightfully so. Traitors to the Emperor and to mankind, all of them. Once, ten millennia ago, they were our brothers, who alongside the loyalist Legions, were humanity's exalted guardians and protectors. Now, they have debased themselves by throwing their lot with Horus and the Ruinous Powers. Where once noble men of valor and courage marched proudly into battle under the banner of the Imperium, now only monsters reside, horrible, twisted scum who seek to destroy all that the Father of Mankind has created. And out of all eight of the traitor Legions, it is the Word Bearers whom are the most despicable and depraved. The Word Bearers. The wretched, craven dogs of Lorgar's ilk. Never has the Imperium faced a foe so vile and treacherous as they."

Chaplain Targon slammed a plated fist onto Avarian's closed casket in anger, the sound of ceramite meeting steel reverberating harshly within the _Wings of Corax's_ hallowed halls. The steel where the Reclusiarch's clenched hand had struck dented from the force of Astartes muscle. Had the blow been in the heat of battle, where said muscle were unrestrained and filled with adrenaline, the steel would have more than dented.

"Unlike the other traitor Legions who fight for petty and selfish reasons, the blasphemous descendents of Lorgar wage war on the Emperor's domains for religion. They believe that through the worship of the Dark Gods, they may gain unlimited and immeasurable power, and hence they have sold their own souls and the souls of others to their foul deities for the merest glimmer of recognition. The Word Bearers will enslave entire populations to their will, filling the heads of innocents with grandiose lies and empty promises at but a whim. They will deceive the honest citizens of the Imperium with the false hope of prosperity and peace but then spit on their oaths when the rightful warriors of the Emperor come for retribution. Liars and demagogues, the Word Bearers are. Heretics and heathens beyond redemption. Hate them, brothers, and know that too far the sons of Lorgar have strayed from the Emperor's Light. Show them no mercy on the battlefield, for they do not deserve it."

A wave of loathing spread from the gathered Astartes, malice and spite mixed in with sheer disgust and revulsion at so evil an enemy. For what Targon said was true. Of all the traitors that turned against the Emperor during the Horus Heresy, it was the Word Bearers who deserved the most hatred from all who were loyal to the Imperium. Lorgar's kin purposely turned the followers of the Imperial Cult to the worship of the Ruinous Powers, and that, was heresy piled upon heresy.

"And so Brother Moritan and the Honored Ones found themselves facing a host of said perfidious foes at the gates of Aegudun Hive. The city and the planet it belonged to was a shrine world dedicated to Saint Jailaine, a powerful and virtuous avatar of the Emperor's Will. It was on this planet that her magnificence finally succumbed to traitor swords, but not before leading the armies of the Imperium to her final everlasting victory in a Crusade that spanned a hundred worlds. As thus, it was members of our progenitor chapter, the Raven Guard, who were there to witness the Living Saint's fall. The sons of Corax threw away the primarch's teachings that day and forsook the tenets of a shadow war. Standing tall and defiant upon the rubble on which her magnificence lay, our brothers in arms battered aside all attempts made by the Chaos scum to despoil the Saint's body."

"For a day and a night they stood vigil, bolters flaring with repeated discharge, punishing the heretic and the traitor with the discipline more akin to the likes of Rogal Dorn of the Imperial Fists than scions of Corax. However, such deviance from our primarch's way of war was rewarded when upon the second day; the Imperial forces reached the embattled Raven Guard and pushed the followers of the Ruinous Powers from the world forever. The day was won, but the loss had been great. Saint Jailaine had fallen, and though her killer, a fell champion of Chaos, was slain shortly after by the brave Brother Captain who led the band of Raven Guard in defense of the Saint's sacred body, her death was too great an impact on Imperial morale to continue the Crusade. A great edifice was built to honor the Saint's memory, a towering construction of marble that overwhelmed all who looked upon it with its grandeur and majesty. For their valorous actions in defending her magnificence, those few of the sons of Corax who remained unwounded were allowed the honor of bearing the Saint's holy form into the sepulcher that lay underneath. There, in those hallowed halls meant for the honored dead, our progenitors swore a mighty oath. That as long as the Emperor still sat upon the Golden Throne, the warriors of the Raven and their successors would answer the calls for help from the world the Saint slept on in an eternal slumber. And it was that oath that Brother Moritan and the Honored Ones answered."

The Reclusiarch's skull mask glinted eerily in the candlelight. The red slit visors that glared from the stylized sockets shone a crimson hue as Targon's voice grew harsh and hate-filled.

"Upon this sacred world did the Word Bearers tread, desecrating the Saint's memory and defiling the great city of gleaming marble that housed her worshippers. Like locusts did these corrupted monsters descend on the horrified populace, devouring their faith in the Emperor and sowing the seeds of their own blasphemous religion. Facing these Warp spawn abominations, were those few Imperial Guard regiments that had come to this world for pilgrimage, and the Sisters of the Valorous Heart, an Orders Militant created in honor of the martyrdom of Saint Jailaine. And with these loyal men and women did the Honored Ones stand proud. Five full companies worth of Lorgar's cursed children did the warriors of the Emperor spit defiant against, as well as the untold thousands of cultists that swarmed every street, every building, and every level of the City of the Saint. Thankfully, the aura of sanctity that her magnificence's entombed body radiated prevented the Word Bearers from summoning forth the foul denizens of the Empyrean they so eagerly kowtowed to. Even still, such odds could not have been overcome by any ten regular Astartes, be they fresh-faced novices in their first campaign in power armor, or hardened veterans of many centuries of experience. But the Honored Ones were not regular Astartes by any means. Corax's Will beat strong in each of their breasts, and they would not falter so easily against this terrible foe."

"And terrible they were! Screaming hordes of human flesh assailed the defenders for hours at end, cultist and Imperial faithful alike driven into a frenzy by the maddened oratory of the Word Bearers. Screeching daemon engines trampled the dead and the wounded upon piston legs of Warp-infused admantium in their need to butcher and slaughter. And most terrible of all were the wretched kin of Lorgar themselves, an encroaching tide of crimson battle plate etched with foul sigils and runes dedicated to the Four Great Evils. From their mouths came dark prayers and sinister litanies, twisted parodies of our own noble chants and catechisms that forced the ears of those who heard them to weep with ichor. In the archaic ceramite of their fists they gripped weapons from ancient times, well-worn from ten thousand years of carnage and bloodshed. Every step they took in the City of the Saint was seeped in the blood of the innocent. Many died that day who would have lived long lives, but for the cruelty and malice of the Word Bearers."

Targon's speech had reached its crescendo, deafening those Marines present with spite-filled declarations. Sergeant Darkur felt his twin hearts beat faster with anger in response to the Chaplain's eloquent words. His lips curled into a feral snarl of hatred at the thought of Chaos Space Marines desecrating the holy ground on which Saint Jailaine sacrificed herself for the good of the Imperium.

He was not the only one to display such revulsion.

Many of his fellow battle-brothers openly displayed faces wreathed in hostility. Irvus of the Devastators held a grim frown on his gnarled features; the usually stern sergeant of 5th Company's heavy support was not known to show emotion, and Darkur could only guess at the boiling cauldron of fury that secretly resided within his fellow squad leader's chest. Parmenion and Harkon, both fellow sergeants of Tactical Squads, wore expressions of sheer rage that could turn back a Catachan Devil on sight. The veteran sergeant of one of Fifth Company's two Assault Squads, Trakar, clenched tight both of his fists, and Darkur could feel his need to purge those found wanting. Even Epistolary Seydon, the calmest of them all, betrayed a flicker of anger upon his alabaster countenance.

Mercilessly, Targon continued on.

"At the Gates of Faith Eternal did first our brothers strike. The gateway itself was not designed to weather the seasons of war. The silver plated construct was blown asunder by the daemon machines of the Word Bearers, and over its ruins a horde of the Lost and Damned poured, eager to murder those loyal to the Emperor. Expecting the weak and the defenseless, they instead met the indomitable might of the Honored Ones. Bolter fire tore great swathes in the heretic ranks, but under the whips and lashes of their Word Bearer masters, the host of mutants and traitors bore the brunt of the ferocious volleys and continued their assault. A fatal mistake. As the Lost and Damned neared, savaged by exploding bolt and hissing plasma, Deliverance leapt from its sheathe and into the hands of Brother Moritan. The venerated relic blade cackled with lethal energies as it hewed through dozens of gibbering cultists with each powerful sweep. Those that avoided the righteous wrath of Deliverance and its wielder were smashed aside by the Honored Ones with well placed blows from bolter stock or plated fist. With their backs to the demolished gateway, the scions of Corax stood defiant against thousands, and piled traitor corpses six deep at their feet. Only when the foul hordes dispersed back to their craven masters in terror did the Honored Ones retreat. Their valorous action that day had brought enough time for civilians and pilgrims to be evacuated to the innermost level of the city, where they were safeguarded by the Battle Sisters of the Valorous Heart."

"But Lorgar's ilk would not be halted with the loss of mere slaves. A full company worth of Chaos Space Marines charged over the smoking ruins of the Gates of Faith Eternal, eager to revel in the slaughter to please their dark gods. Opposing them were elements of the Imperial Guard and Adepta Sororitas dug in within the shelled wrecks of buildings and hab-shelters. The warriors of the Imperium fought valiantly and without peer, but their enemies were beings beyond the capabilities of mortals. Though the Word Bearers are traitors and heathens who deserve naught but contempt, they still retain the physical attributes of Astartes the Emperor blessed them long ago when they were loyal to the Imperial Creed. Added to their superhuman vitality were the blasphemous gifts the Ruinous Powers had bestowed, and together, they formed unholy amalgamations of corruption that could not be overcome. The heretics easily swept the Imperial resistance from their fortified positions and were about to set upon them in savage bloodletting when once more the Honored Ones struck."

Darkur could feel the grim smile that replaced Targon's earlier air of abhorrence emanating from beneath his skull visage.

"The genius of our primarch's method of war was not lost upon Brother Moritan. Instead of withdrawing to the innermost levels of the city where the area could be more easily defended, our brothers had concealed themselves within the rubble from the Word Bearer's bombardment. Now, as the traitors rushed to butcher those they thought defeated, the Honored Ones rose from their cover like shadows of death and unleashed a withering torrent of fire into the backs of the heretics. Caught between the lethal volleys of our fellow Death Spectres and the Guardsmen and Sororitas, the turncoats were decimated. Barely two dozen of Lorgar's accursed kin dragged themselves away from the firefight, their will to fight sapped thoroughly by the spirited defense of Saint Jailaine's protectors."

"But the teachings of their fallen primarch would not allow the traitors a reprieve. The Word Bearers, since their founding during the Great Crusade, were one of the most steadfast and stubborn Space Marine Legions. With their corruption by the Ruinous Powers, those traits were further amplified. The heathens would rather die than retreat, and spurned on by the false promise of power from their sinister deities, they returned in force to assault the resting ground of the Saint. Rash and headstrong in their eagerness to kill, they fell into the vast ambush grounds of the Honored Ones. Using every wrecked building, every cratered dwelling to their advantage, Brother Moritan and his squad made the heretics pay in blood for every inch of land they gained. Appearing from places unexpected like shadows and wraiths, the sons of Corax sowed the earth with the corpses of the Arch Enemy. Ten times their number of Chaos tainted Astartes did the Honored Ones slay, and ten times more the cultist lackeys of the Word Bearers. Had the turncoats continued to throw their warriors against our battle-brothers, then Moritan would have surely emerged triumphant. But that was not to be, for on the fifth day of that siege, our traitor kin, led by a dreaded Chaos Lord, tore a path towards the tomb of her magnificence."

The aura of gloom swiftly returned to the pacing Reclusiarch with force, and when Targon next spoke, his tone was a grating growl laced with venom.

"Unwilling to let the followers of the Ruinous Powers desecrate the catacombs that held the Saint's holy body, Moritan and the Honored Ones were forced to make a stand against Lorgar's ilk before the vast marble temple of her magnificence. His men already having been reduced to six, and with no more places for ambush in sight, our brothers were sorely pressed by the Word Bearer attack. But Corax's blood flowed through their veins, and they would not waver against the traitor assault. Moritan's men were slain, one by one, each taking his share of traitors to the grave with them as their mortal lives ended. And there, on the steps of the temple, surrounded by the bodies of his men and his foes, the brother sergeant of the Honored Ones clashed with the Lord of the Word Bearer host. Against any other opponent, Moritan would have triumphed, but the Chaos Lord was a mighty foe backed by the four Warp Powers he worshipped. Every blow from Deliverance was easily countered, and easily riposted. In the end, the venerated leader of the Honored Ones could not match the Word Bearer in strength, and was impaled by the length of the traitor bastard's blade. But even so close to death, our brother would not rest until his duty was done. With the last of his strength, and with his foe thinking the battle had been won, Moritan drove Deliverance hilt deep into the heretic's chest. Both of them fell to the war torn earth, locked in an eternal struggle. Thus ended the life of Moritan."

The Chaplain sighed, the sound distorted by vox static. The ancient war-priest turned to regard his brethren, his crozius dangling limply from one plated hand. A whisper emitted from the skull mask, and would have been lost to the assembled Marines had not they possessed the superior hearing of their Lyman's Ear.

"That, is one account of the story of Moritan, at least."

Disbelief ran rampant within the gathered ranks of Death Spectres.

"My lord Chaplain, do you mean that there is another version of the tale of Moritan?" Brother Sergeant Harkon put into words the thoughts of each and every Marine present.

"Yes, there is," Targon placed a reverent hand on Avarian's dented casket, as though if placating the coffin for his earlier abuse towards it, "But that, brothers, is a tale for another day."


	34. Battle's Beginning

_VFR6: The connection between Moritan and Avarian will be revealed later, though there should be some hints already in the past chapters as well as this one._

_Overdrive1: Thank you! The Space Marines during the Horus Heresy are reckoned to be number at least in the tens of thousands for the less numerable of the Legions, like the Emperor's Children. Lexicanum states that the Raven Guard had around eighty thousand Astartes before Isstvan V and the Drop Site Massacre. The Ultramarines, the most numerous of the Legions in terms of manpower, were around two hundred fifty thousand Marines. As for recommended novels, Brothers of the Snake is one of my all time favorites. I've also recently picked up Helsreach, which I also strongly recommend. I hear the first Space Wolf omnibus is also pretty good. Also, you should check out the Firestorm over Kronus Mod for DoW. It's based entirely on the tabletop version of the game, and inputs new units with new models (as well as Black Templars as a whole new race)._

_Emperor Chronicler: In regards to Whitemane's thoughts, some of it is portrayed in this chapter. As for her character, the High Inquisitor, to me at least, is more of a glory-seeking kind of person who believes utterly in what she does._

_David Knight: Thanks!_

_Sgt. Nolisten: I'm not familiar with the Naruto franchise, so I can't say if I understood what was going on._

_Starspawn07: Azerothian humans are actually descended from the vrykul. Some of your thoughts are true, and have already been incorporated into the plot. Some are not. I will not disclose them to you as I don't want to ruin the story. As for god-moding, one has to understand that there is very little on Azeroth that can inflict harm to a Space Marine. Magic can, but that has to be in quantity as well as quality to bypass an Astartes's formidable defense in the forms of power armor and redundant organs. For example, lasguns, which in the novels and the fluff, are depicted as blowing fist sized holes into armored humanoids, are utterly ineffective against Space Marines. In fact, I recall one book where an Astartes wades through lasfire like "rain". _

_Legionary: Thank you!_

_Salle1980: There is no Argent Crusade yet. Just the Argent Dawn. Tirion will also have a part to play in this fic._

_Jena and Animus Ferrus: I swore I counted nine traitor legions… Oh well, I'll add the Iron Warriors when the time permits._

_Lazylegionspark: No. Starcraft tech is vastly inferior to 40k tech. Note, that though technology has stagnated during the 41__st__ millennium, they are still better in every way than the technology of all the Terran factions combined. Warp Drives, Void Shields, War Titans, Space Ships seven kilometers in length, and a lot more. A single forge world could out produce more weapons and equipment than any Starcraft faction. Should Starcraft and 40k ever meet, it would be an utter curbstomp in every way in favor of Warhammer. The difference in power levels is just too much. As for the Zerg, well, they've got nothing on the Tyranids. To put this in perspective, the current Zerg numbers are estimated to be in the billions. A single Tyranid splinter fleet consisting of a dozen ships, would consist of the same, if not higher, number. If we take the entirety of Hive Fleet Behemoth, then we have trillions of deadly organisms that makes the Zerg look like tamed puppies in comparison. We also have to remember that the largest Hive Fleets so far, are merely the Scout Vanguard of a much, much, larger incoming fleet. _

_Sarge51: Thank you! The dreadnought will appear when the time is right. :P_

_Xynth: The God Emperor wouldn't ever help the Middle East despite being born in Anatolia. The Emperor hated religion, and the extremists that currently reside in the Middle East would be the very anathema to what His ideals are._

_Daehaglnaud: I want the dreadnought to appear too! But, sadly, you will have to wait for a while longer._

_Lunatic Pandora1: The Legion of the Damned actually shoot bolts of fire from their bolters, if I'm not mistaken._

_Ranger24: Ummm… The Dark Age of Technology is when humanity pretty much was at its zenith in power. Most of the STC constructs that the Mechanicus uses are derived from that very age. So, unless I'm misunderstanding you, because the Terrans didn't have such an age when technology progressed forward in leaps and bounds, they suddenly became more technologically advanced? As for the elite Imperial Guard army, well, there are already elite IG regiments. Cadian Shock Troopers, Valhallan Ice Warriors, Death Korps of Krieg, Vostroyan First Borne, Armageddon Steel Legion, and the likes would hand any Starcraft Marine their ass on a silver plate. I also don't understand the armor part. Starcraft power armor is in every way inferior to Imperium power armor. I would rate a Starcraft Marine's suit as about protective as carapace armor, and considering that most IG stormtroopers are in possession of such armor, wouldn't that end up as a moot point?_

_Word Bearer: They are in need of ammunition. I believe its ten shots per magazine._

_Dusel: Perhaps he might, or he could just go about cleansing the old fashion way, with bolter and chainsword. :P_

_Akira Stridder: Indeed!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: I mostly make up the elements of a speech, though the last one had bits from Shakespeare and Braveheart in it. As for Whitemane's feelings, some of it is described in this chapter._

_Bdun: That will happen soon enough my friend! :P_

_Timewatch: Your vibe would be correct then. From Henry IV._

_N.: The Legion of the Damned aren't spirits in the Warcraft sense. They can appear worlds light years apart from each other, and certainly aren't bound to stay in the mortal plane due to some memory, an item, or a curse as often WoW specters are. And I have already seen that video._

_Mattrocks: There should be hints in this chapter and the previous ones telling you what relationship exists between Avarian and Moritan. And Space Marines do have humor, however, their sense of it is extremely dark and probably not that funny to us._

Chapter 33

Keina Stormsong was in a good mood. Which was strange given the circumstances. A vast horde of undead creatures were stumbling towards the Scarlet battle line, of which she was at the forefront. Not the most popular place of real estate within the Plaguelands. Their disease ridden jaws gaped open, revealing rot encrusted gums and broken teeth, flecked with rivulets of drool. Clawed hands eagerly swiped at the air, despite the still considerable distance between the two armies, desperate to pull down the beating forms of the living and bring warm flesh to hungry maws. Terrible enemies, the minions of the Scourge were, for the Lich King had combined terror and lethality into the perfect weapon in the forms of his forever loyal servants. She should have felt the cold hand of fear clasping tight her shoulder, but surprisingly, it was not there. Instead, the warmth from Avarian's gauntlet from the day earlier still tinged on her bare skin, the presence disturbingly reassuring.

She felt light and happy, peculiar since the aura of nervous anticipation had long settled upon the human archers surrounding her in ranks. A lively hum almost escaped her lips, stopped only by the power of forethought. The night elf looked sheepishly around her, to see if any of the giant's guardsmen had noticed her slip in attitude. Thankfully, Loksey's huntsmen were too absorbed in observing the encroaching wave of groaning death to care for her dalliance. Their eyes were locked on the shambling figures ruined by the ravages of time, and their faces betrayed the tight expectancy of a battle soon to be commenced.

The sentinel captain shook her head to clear the quixotic musings that were slowly infringing on her conscience. She was a warrior, first and foremost, defender of the kaldorei people, not a love-stricken maiden whose mind was plagued constantly with the object of her desires. Besides, the god had complimented her strictly on the qualities of her courage, not her physical appearance. And rightfully so, for fellow warriors sought valor and strength within each other, not beauty and glamour. However, she would be lying to herself if she denied the faint longing to be acknowledged not for her skills in combat but for her, more… alluring qualities.

She paused. Such a feeling was decidedly unlike her.

Her practiced hand, newly repaired by one of the more sensible Scarlet healers, pulled the feathered shaft of an arrow from a quiver of sewn leather and set it against the groove of her bow. An equally practiced motion pulled the metal-tipped missile back against taut string, the steely muscles in her arms quivering with the force needed to hold the projectile in place. Her sharp eyesight studied the advancing line of ghastly creatures, seeking the first of the many that she would slay.

Her action caused those Crusaders nearest to her to frown in condemnation. The forthcoming horde was not yet within the range of their bows, and they could not see why this elf was already prepared to shoot. Their looks of disapproval caused Keina to smile grimly. The art of the bow had been mastered by the kaldorei long before humanity existed, and following the ten thousand years after the birth of mankind, was enhanced to the point of perfection. It made sense then, that such perfection she could utilize to defend her people and home from the covetous clutches of other races. She, as a commander of some of the finest archers on Azeroth, a position based entirely on merit and valor on the battlefield, and as an inheritor of her ancestors' way of warfare, passed down from generation to generation, could shoot further and more accurately than any comparatively skilled human.

The night elf estimated the Crusaders could reasonably hit a target at three hundred paces. She could make her arrows sting at five.

Her gaze locked on to a haggard man clothed in a tattered shirt. The stricken thing's eyes rolled limply in their sockets, more from the jerkiness of its movements than the putrefied nerves that controlled the gelatinous orbs. There were no bite marks ridden across its ambling body, nor the telltale signs of a struggle written on the sickening hue of its skin. With a start she realized this zombie must have been one of the first citizens of Lordaeron to consume the infected wheat at Stratholme. How it got this far and escaped Arthas's purging of the city was beyond her. She felt a semblance of pity for the lurching, groaning creature. Her mind could not imagine a worse fate than the one that had befallen this man; to tread the land for an eternity with nothing but the ravenous hunger as your companion. The right thing to do then, was to free it from its torment.

Keina adjusted her aim and let fly, the sudden twang of taut string being set free breaking the eerie silence. The arrow sprang free from her bow in a blur of motion, propelled by powerful tension, and soared towards its target with lethal intent. The zombie managed one more warbling sound before the shaft sank deep into its forehead. The Scourge took another step forward towards the human battle line, before the recognition that Death had come to claim what rightfully was His dawned upon its beast-like intelligence. It swayed dangerously on unsteady feet, and she hesitantly drew another missile from her quiver with the expectation that more would be needed to down those who stubbornly refused the grave. Then, at last, the man-thing slowly keeled over, limbs still outstretched to grasp and claw.

She saw the zombie fall, its decayed form flopping heavily to the diseased earth where it remained prone and unmoving. At such long range, her elven sight allowed her to see the creature and the effects her arrow had upon it with clarity. It was doubtful, however, that the humans could distinguish the walking dead from each other with their less than stellar vision. Still, she had fired one missile, and one of the distant figures had toppled. It was not hard to put two and two together.

"Impressive," a female voice next to her whispered, and the sentinel glanced over to see a young woman clad in crimson viewing her with reluctant approval, "Bet you can't do that again."

"You're on," she grinned, glad that she had found at least one amongst these fanatics capable of logical thought.

Another arrow left her quiver and was drawn back against her curved weapon. The bowstring sang as it was released, launching the shaft towards the advancing mass of decay. A woman, hair missing from her skull in ragged clumps, felt the kiss of metal from the bodkin tip. Its head snapped back, thirty inches of slender wood quivering from its brow. The unholy creature hissed in response and continued in its jerky gait, seemingly unbothered with the slender missile that had pierced its blotched skin and was tickling the membranous folds of its brain. Keina growled in distaste. She had forgotten that the undead would not so easily be destroyed by regular means. Blows that could send a man crawling in the dirt with pain or knock him unconscious to the floor were of little effect against the Lich King's minions. Her last shot had not completely penetrated the undead's cranium and had failed to destroy the zombie's simple conscience, which, besides dismemberment and immolation, was the only way to guarantee these creatures stayed dead.

"Hmph. Like I thought. Beginner's luck. No nonhuman can best us when it comes to bowcraft," as though if on cue, another Crusader, this time a grizzled veteran with beard stubble, spoke in an attempt to belittle her.

Critics, she thought. Always disparaging those with talent while possessing of none themselves. There was only one way to get these types of people to shut up.

A prayer to Elune formed in her mind, and she recited it mentally, calling for the deity of the night elves to bless her with the power to visit ruin and devastation upon the foe. A surge of energy within her draw arm told her Elune had answered her plea. A thin smirk of satisfaction developed on her lips. She would show these Scarlets why the kaldorei were an essential part of the Alliance war machine. And she would show Avarian her proficiency in battle.

Her bowstring twanged once more, sending another death-dealing shaft slashing through the air. But unlike the two she had loosed before, this was no ordinary missile. Those gifted with the Moon Goddess's attention could draw upon a portion of her own power; these namely being the Sisters of Elune who resided in the temples of Darnassus. The sentinels, being the military branch of the priesthood, could also receive the White Lady's blessings, though the magnitude of power they obtained were minute compared to a true priestess of Elune. Still, even a minute portion could still be unbelievably potent when given by a god.

A cackling sphere of multi-colored energy materialized at the arrow tip midway in its flight. Those who were familiar with the path of the Hunter called such a spell, Arcane Shot, but that in itself, was a half-truth. The quel'dorei had influenced many since their departure from night elf lands ten millennia ago, and their rangers were one of those influences. The years had not quelled the ignorance of the Highborne, and as such, they denoted anything that resembled the magical, arcane. However, there was nothing of the magical in her missile. Instead, it was formed from the elements of nature; lightning, fire, ice, and more in their rawest form. The now incandescent shaft streaked unerringly towards its target and struck squarely the chest of the woman her last arrow had failed to slay.

The result was instantaneous and extremely impressive.

Raw elemental power tore the undead limb from limb, shredded its flesh from its monstrous form in whipping tendrils of lightning, and blew apart its shuddering body in a corona of fire. The explosion splattered visceral chunks amongst the now dead zombie's cohorts, and drenched whatever tatters of clothing they wore in thick blood.

Keina smiled triumphantly. What need did the night elves have for dwarven cannon when their simplest weapons could erase a creature from existence with such power?

The Scarlet veteran snorted, and returned his gaze to the Scourge horde, but she caught a glint of admiration within those experienced eyes. If only those eyes belonged to a certain giant clad in midnight black, she mused.

"They are almost within range. Ready your bows, huntsmen. We will show the Iron Angel the skill of the Crusade's finest marksmen!" the voice of Houndmaster Loksey tore her away from her rambling thoughts.

The sentinel captain mentally berated herself for her wandering conscience, before selecting another arrow from her quiver. Even if those thoughts would one day come true, she would need to survive this battle to enjoy their realization.

* * *

The volley of shafts arched high in the air, a hundred all-told, and descended upon the ragged Scourge line in a cloud of sharpened tips and whistling feathers. Unholy abominations jerked and jolted as the wave of fletched death found purchase in their tattered frames, spewing thin gouts of blackened blood from punctured flesh. Some sagged to the ground, their voracious need to consume defeated by the embrace of an end long denied. Many more did not, and continued their slow shuffle towards their prey, carrying the recently expended missiles pierced along their bodies like trophies of war.

"Ready!"

Loksey's commanding tone rang across the field, and the Scarlet archers responded, placing fresh arrows against their bows in preparation for another barrage.

"Draw!"

Sinews strained in muscular arms as a hundred bowstrings were pulled back, their lethal payload nestled comfortably between grooves of wood.

"Loose!"

A hail of missiles hurtled from the Crusader positions, riding high the impetus of the wind, before lancing down upon undead skulls. Misshapen creatures that were once men rattled hisses of complaint as pointed metal burrowed deep into their putrefied frames. Rivulets of ichor streamed down pallid chests, arms, and legs, leaving trails of darkened fluid to be absorbed by the twisted earth. They felt no pain, these minions of the Scourge, and were unbothered by the fresh shafts that stuck to their bodies. The zombies continued to drag themselves forward on limp feet, plague-ridden faces spread wide in rictus leers.

Commissar Whitemane frowned as the vast tide of outstretched fingers and gnashing teeth trod upon what little dead the huntsmen had slain, and continued in their agonizingly slow assault. She had not expected Loksey's men to achieve much, and their exposure in the front was merely to harry the Scourge and attract their attention. Which, subsequently, they were doing very well, as indicated by the constant nearing of the wretched horde.

Her frown turned to a scowl of displeasure as a bolt of pulsating energy, driven by feathered shaft, shot from the unmistakable figure of the night elf, placed within the ranks of the bowmen. The radiant missile soared into the groaning undead, and caught one of the staggering figures in its path. A flash of purplish light and the undead exploded, coming apart in ragged pieces of meat and sundered limbs.

She sniffed in derision. Show-off. Her gaze shot towards the angel that stood tall and unflinching beside her, gauging his reaction to the elf's display of expertise in battle. If he was impressed, he certainly did not show it, and remained steadfast in his stance. A series of faint clicks emitted from the man's grimacing helm, and the visor slits that bulged from the ivory faceplate flared twice in accompaniment with the strange sounds. Her curiosity was piqued, but she would not interrupt the giant's trance in deference to his status.

They were situated on a smooth sloping hill, where a commanding view of the battlefield could be offered. It was only her and the angel, her captains having long departed to command their troops. As it should be. A lord and his servant. A king and his vassal. An angel and his Crusader. Long had she wanted recognition for her and her men's deeds, but none were forthcoming from the High General or the Grand Crusader. But now, an Iron Angel, chosen of the Emperor and blessed by the Light, had arrived when their spirits were lowest and had swayed them all with the story of the Great Father of Mankind. Even more so, she had been praised for her faith in front for all to see by the angel, and then been bequeathed the title of Commissar. She hadn't the faintest clue what said title meant, but was proud to receive it anyways.

And just as she was loyal to High General Abbendis and the Crusade, she would be steadfast in her devotion to the angel. As Sir Turalyon was to King Lothar, she would be the giant's able second, ready to support him by any means necessary. And when Azeroth was cleansed of the Scourge, along with any other deviant in the Emperor's eyes, she would bask in the glory of their victory. And then, she would bask in the magnificence that was the angel's attention.

Her eyes moved from the imposing figure of black metal and observed the Scarlet battle-line arrayed before her vantage point, noting with satisfaction the stoic forms of her warriors. Two companies of swordsmen, one hundred in each, backed the archers, stout kite shields tethered to one arm and long, broad blades held in the other. They formed a wall of unyielding steel that would be hard to overcome, even for foes as relentless as the Scourge. At the swordsmen's sides, guarding their flanks, were Solliden's militia, irregular weapons such as axes and clubs much in evidence. A band of spear wielding Guardsmen stood behind the leftmost flank, and another band of Crusaders, Myrmidons, the most faithful in her army, waited impatiently for the battle to start at the rightmost flank. And bringing up the rear were Elisa's cavalry and the small band of traitors and nonhumans that called themselves the Argent Dawn.

Whitemane sneered as she watched the paladin, Gyran, instruct the group of orcs, humans, and elves in their upcoming task. The Argent templar had managed to only recruit a few of those guarding the Bulwark, a far cry from the "no shortage of volunteers" he had proclaimed to the Iron Angel. But then again, that was to be expected from filth that consorted with nonhumans, or xenos, as the giant had termed them. The honesty that was prevalent in mankind could only be sullied by association with the lesser races, and it galled her that the only humans left on this world that could remain pure were those few who bore the tabard of the crimson leaf.

There were no turncoats in her ranks, for trust in their fellow brothers and sisters were one of the chief tenets the soldiers of the Crusade swore to. The same could not be said for the army of the Alliance.

"Loose!"

The Houndmaster's voice cried out once more, and his archers responded, blanketing the sky with a mass of feathered missiles. Like rain the arrows descended, each striking a target in a spurt of diseased blood. Not one missile missed. The zombie horde was too vast and too cluttered together for the huntsmen to confound their aim, and even a shaft shot randomly in the undead's direction would score a wound. Yet, against an enemy such as the Scourge, whose most lackluster of troops could ignore wounds fatal to a normal man, the efforts of Loksey and his soldiers to thin the oncoming tide were on the borderline useless. As if it to prove her point correct, only a gaggle of zombies toppled, sprouting arrows from their skulls planted by luck rather than skill.

The metallic growl that sounded beside her told her the giant had seen the archers' ineffectiveness as well.

"If your warriors were equipped with the most rudimentary of lasguns, autoguns even, then this battle would be over already," the angel spoke, a spark of discontent evident in his grating tone.

"Lasguns, my lord? Do they resemble the muskets and blunderbusses we use?" her inquisitive words caused the angel to chuckle lightly.

"Only so much as an Occludus tree frog resembles a Catachan Barking Toad."

She blinked in confusion. The metaphor, if there was one, was lost on her.

"Nevertheless, we will make do with what tools are at our disposal. The Emperor's Wrath can be doled out in many ways. Swords and maces, merely one of them," the humor was gone from his voice in an instant, replaced with grim resolve.

"As you wish, lord. But surely we should have no difficulty in regards to firepower with your…" her hand gestured to the bulky weapon that was clenched in one massive, plated fist.

"A bolter, Commissar. A holy instrument of divine retribution, crafted by hand on the Forgeworlds of the Mechanicus, and blessed by their tech priests to incorporate the Emperor's Fury within its sacred form. It is more than a mere weapon. It is a symbol of the Imperium's struggle against its foes, as well as an icon of the Immortal Lord, Himself. Do not mistake it for a simple implement of war, for to do so, would be a grave insult to its machine spirit."

"I am sorry for my ignorance, then," Whitemane inclined her head towards the black clad warrior, regret plastered on her face.

"Ignorance is a good thing, Lady Commissar, for there are many things in this galaxy that we should not be privy to. The search for hidden knowledge leads many to the road to damnation, and it would be unwise for us to tread on that same path. Blessed be the mind too small for doubt," the angel turned to regard her, the bone white of his helm contrasting starkly with the darkness of his armor, "But, your question has merit, and I will answer it. Firepower is not an issue here. Munitions is. I have but one crate of blessed shells for my boltgun, and a fifth of that number is specialized ammunition. Though the opponents I have faced so far are… lacking, without a better word to describe them, that does not mean there are no worthy enemies on this world. In the meantime, I will not waste any more of my supply than necessary, and certainly not on these pathetic abominations."

The Iron Angel waved a disdainful hand towards the continuing creep of wretched undead now two hundred paces from the Scarlet battle line.

"I have not seen a foe this repugnant since Artarion Primus," the giant continued, his tenor thick with revulsion, "but at least then there had been worthy, though vile, enemies in the forms of the Plaguebearers. Here, there are only shambling corpses."

"Artarion Primus?" she found her curiosity piqued again.

"Aye. You would not know of that place, Whitemane. It is just another planet in the many that spans the universe. An agri-world, to be more specific," the man paused, the malevolent crimson eyes of his battle helm glinting as he watched another barrage of arrows shoot forth from the bowmen. A grunt of displeasure sounded a second later as the angel saw what little effect again the archers had on the Scourge tide. He resumed his speech, a pinch of bitterness in his tone, "Sixty million souls. All gone to Nurgle's clutches. Can you imagine it? One day, normal people, without care for events that happened beyond their own planet. The next, hungering wretches, bloated with disease, damned eternally to walk the earth… Them," his teethed sword swept towards the ever nearing undead, and she could feel the resentment beneath the sneering faceplate.

"Sixty million? By Lothar's Sword… such a number is… unthinkable," she admitted, "I don't think our world holds even one million of the populace. But to prevail against that number is surely a testament to your strength of arms, lord."

"Strength of arms not entirely mine. My battle-brothers were with me that day, as was Inquisitor Xera of the Ordo Malleus," the voice of the angel had turned hesitant, almost sorrowful, and she bit down her question, unwilling to prod one of the Emperor's Own for answers he did not wish to give.

A minute passed, with no words between them. A minute passed with no sound except the pitiful moans of the encroaching dead. She would treasure this moment.

"Fire at will!"

Loksey's order carried to their ears. The successive volleys halted entirely, replaced by the constant strumming of bowstring as the huntsmen began loosing shafts at their own pace. Accuracy improved, for the range had decreased. The rate of kills improved, for the accuracy had improved. Zombies dropped in higher numbers, flopping to the ground loosely with arrows lodged in their brains. A blazing missile, wreathed in amethyst tendrils of power, joined the efforts of the Crusaders, courtesy of the night elf, and tore an unholy creature apart in an eruption of gore.

"It is time," the angel rumbled, "The undead near, and we must meet them with cold steel."

"My men stand ready, sire. They are the finest this world has to offer. They will not disappoint you, or the Emperor."

"Quite. But, boasts will not win battles, Commissar. It is through faith and discipline that the warriors of the Imperium triumph over their foes. Faith, you and your men have in ample supply. Discipline, however, is a whole another matter entirely."

"But, lord, we have driven the Scourge back with naught but our devotion to the Light and our commitment to our brotherhood… surely, discipline, while important, is lesser compared to faith?"

The giant turned his gaze once more from the battlefield at her question, and Whitemane shuddered slightly as his glare speared into her.

"An incorrect assumption. Faith in the Emperor is commendable. But faith alone will do nothing. When combined with discipline, however, faith becomes a weapon capable of besting any opponent. When faith falters, discipline enforces its will. When faith becomes overzealous, discipline reins it in. And when faith disappears altogether, it is discipline that takes its place in shielding the soul."

She nodded reverently in response to the angel's counsel. Words from one of the Emperor's Chosen was not to be ignored, and she would take such advice to heart.

"You will ensure that your men show restraint when executing our battle plan. There are some among your ranks that would most likely seek glory for themselves rather than follow orders from the chain of command," the Iron Angel raised his sword and pointed it in the direction of the Scarlet Myrmidons, "that foolhardiness must be curtailed. Such a task, Lady Commissar, falls to you. Restrain those who are too eager in their duty and punish those who are too lax in it."

"Yes, my lord!" The enthusiasm in her tone mirrored the passion that beat within her breast.

The giant nodded, seemingly pleased. Another gesture from his jagged blade preceded his words.

"Go now, Whitemane. This battle will not win itself."

"Yes sire, but, will you not fight with us?"

"One does not need a Baneblade to slay a grox. These enemies that approach would sully my blade with their weakness. No, I will stay and observe the progression of this encounter," her face fell with the realization, which the angel predictably noticed. When he spoke again, his raspy voice held a glimmer of amusement, "But that does not mean I plan to stay my hand in this conflict. I will go where I am needed, and bolster your lines when the time comes. But, I expect such a time to never occur. I believe in your warriors, as I believe in you, Commissar. I have no doubt in my mind that you will prevail here."

Her chest swelled with pride, and a faint hue of red tinged her cheeks.

"Thank you, my liege! Thank you for your faith in me! I will not let you down! I promise! I-I would rather die a thousand deaths than fail you! I-"

An upheld hand from the giant halted her stammering, the palm the size of her face.

"Enough. Go to your men. They need your leadership."

She swallowed down her next words, and snapped a hasty salute. She pivoted on her heel and was gone; hurrying down the incline towards her Crusaders and towards what would undoubtedly be the first steps on a long road filled with glory.

* * *

At fifty paces, the ghouls appeared. Concealed within the zombie horde, their hunched, grotesque figures resembled too easily the creatures they hid amongst. Now, they surged from the mass of undead, knocking aside their mindless cohorts in their lust for bloodshed. Guttural howls issued from their slavering jaws, unhinged and ready to shut on living flesh. Faces no longer human contorted in savage snarls, brimming with unholy hatred. Long loping strides, almost animalistic in gait, carried them closer to the Scarlet archers, who had already begun to fall back.

Rockmuncher was one of these ghouls.

It had once been an acolyte of the Cult of the Damned, before its blessed transformation into true undeath. It once had a name too; a boring and unexciting title that described well its life as a peasant in the domains of Lordaeron, toiling long and hard on the fields of some arrogant knight, with no reward or recompense for its work. So when Master Kel'Thuzad had strolled into its little hamlet, with the offer to join an organization that promised so much more, the peasant that was now Rockmuncher had been all too eager to enlist.

That was many years ago, when it was still a fleshling unenlightened by the tenets of the great Ner'zhul. Oh, how it had rejoiced when the gift of undeath had been granted to him by the necromancers of the Scourge! No more was it a person to be tread upon, to be disregarded. It was now a being to be feared and respected! It was the great Rockmuncher! Eater of stones and devourer of all things granite! Consumer of shale and scoffer of pebbles! Swallower of dirt and chewer of boulders!

How it had treasured this title, bequeathed to it by the summoners of the dead. Its only disappointment was that had it been but one place in front in the line of those to be raised, then the most coveted title amongst the ghouls, Groinlicker, would have been its. Instead, such a worthy name went to another of its kind, and Rockmuncher was forced to stay Rockmuncher.

Its form, stooped and disfigured by rot, rushed forward on all four limbs, eager to bring the human huntsmen into a melee they could not win. Its brothers and sisters joined him, their shriveled bodies rushing forward with wild abandon.

_"Kill them all,"_ the commands of the Lich King, directed by Cauldron Lord Razarch, flooded their minds.

The plague-filled mouths of its comrades spread wide in terrible howls.

"Muuusssstttt Feeeeddddd!" their gurgling rasps filled Rockmuncher's ragged ears. It was only too eager to join in.

_"Muuussstttt Feeeeeeddddd!"_ the ghoul yowled in its mind.

"Eaaaatttt Rooooccckkkssss!" its voice decided to change the words, a habit that had stayed with it from its rebirth into true undeath.

The humans were close. So close. A few more strides and they would have a feast on their hands. The first two ranks had already fled towards the protection of their sword and shield armed brethren, but the ghouls could easily catch up. Rockmuncher could already taste their blood on its lips. It could already envision the sprays of gore as its claws sank into their frail bodies.

Surprisingly the third and last line of Crusaders did not balk at the rapidly approaching onslaught. Instead, they slung their bows over their shoulders and raised short barreled guns with fat, yawning maws. A foolish and irrational action. Muskets could only shoot single projectiles, and were famously inaccurate. Perhaps they would have been of use against the slowly encroaching mass of zombies, but against ghouls, who could effortlessly keep up with a running human for an indefinite period of time, such weapons were all but worthless.

The ghouls bounded the last few steps towards their victims, sadistic glee abound in their rheumy eyes. Their emaciated arms stretched out, bony claws extended to tear and rend.

The Crusader guns discharged mere feet from the faces of the baying undead.

Rockmuncher was slightly behind its compatriots. It expected very few of its fellow ghouls to drop. After all, a single musket ball could do no better than an arrow when it came to damaging those who were blessed with the death-life.

Not a single musket ball erupted from the guns. Instead, a vast spray of glass shards, rusty nails, and broken pieces of iron vomited forth from each belching barrel, and carpeted the onrushing undead in hideous volumes of jagged metal. Limbs separated from shoulders, sheared from their joints. Heaving chests fell back, perforated into unrecognizable ruins. Heads came apart in showers of blood and shredded brain matter, sliced open to reveal their gory contents for all to see. The charging ghouls disappeared under the blanket of shrapnel, their cries of dismay cut short by the hot metal that ripped their bodies apart.

Around two score ghouls had partaken in the assault. None, but Rockmuncher survived.

The ghoul mewled pitifully as it dragged its bleeding form towards the humans. One arm was gone entirely, amputated by a hurtling iron shard and lost somewhere among the bodies of its comrades. The other hung by a few strands of flesh and slivers of broken bone, almost completely severed. From its abdomen, shrunken and pale with decay, serrated pieces of metal jutted, spilling black ichor down its legs.

It was dying a second death.

A human with a balding scalp pointed his gun at it, and Rockmuncher snarled in response, defiance written over its ugly features.

"_My life for the Lich King!"_ it wanted to say.

"Rooocckkkkssss for the Lichhhh Kinggggg," was what came out.

The last thing the ghoul saw was one of the man's eyebrows arch high in bemusement before the weapon's barrel deployed its destructive payload into its face.

* * *

Houndmaster Loksey lowered his still smoking blunderbuss, watching with puzzlement as the headless body of the unholy creature finally fell into a pile of its own twitching limbs. Had the undead thing just said, "Rocks for the Lich King" or was he hearing things? After a moment of hesitation, he attributed it the latter, after all, the volley of fire that came from the last ranks of his huntsmen had almost deafened him. Still, the guns had proven effective, as demonstrated by the corpses of the Scourge ghouls that lay before him.

The houndmaster brought the thick, ugly-looking firearm up to his gaze, new respect in his eyes. Blunderbusses were ancient weapons, from a time when humanity had only barely begun in its design of black powder and its application. Inaccurate, and cumbersome to fire, they had all been replaced when the dwarves invented the musket. As a result, he had been somewhat skeptical when the Iron Angel had inspected the Scarlet Armory and subsequently ordered the few archaic guns that remained be carried into battle by his men and women; even more so when the angel decreed that said guns should be packed with whatever debris that was sharp enough to cut skin. Now, that skepticism had all but vanished.

The angel had called weapons used in such a manner, shotguns.

As his gaze roamed once more to the devastation his soldiers had caused with but one barrage, Loksey decided that he definitely liked shotguns.

"Fall back, huntsmen! Fall back!" his call was heard, and the last of his warriors retreated through the gaps that had appeared in the wall of swordsmen. Gripping the stock of his new favorite weapon, the houndmaster ran through the ranks of his fellow Crusaders, a mixture of relief and apprehension apparent on his features. He had fulfilled his obligation in the battle plan, but that did not mean the battle had already been won. It remained to be seen if they truly had been blessed by the Emperor.


	35. The First of the Many Battles to Come

**Author's Note: Some of my reviewers have suggested that I place the comments section after the chapter. After some thought, I have agreed and thus you can read the comments after the story goodness.**

Chapter 34

"I have never been more humiliated, more mortified, more… disgraced… in my entire life!"

Cyndia Hawkspear watched with a mixture of fear and apprehension as her mistress stalked the cobblestone floors of her private quarters. The purple cowl and cloak that adorned Sylvanas's well-proportioned form floated spectrally in accompaniment with the Dark Lady's graceful yet furious movements. She was unused to seeing her queen in such a… volatile manner. Gone was the crafty and composed woman she understood her ruler to be; replaced by a ranting banshee whose fury was lavishly doled out to the two figures who stood awkwardly to the side, half-hidden by the shadows cast from mildewed walls. If she didn't know any better, then she would have guessed her liege had gone mad with rage.

"Damn you, Avarian! I will remember! I will remember the shame you have piled upon me! I will remember and never forget!"

The Dark Ranger shared a worried glance with Apothecary Faranell. Their mistress had been gripped in the throes of anger before, but never in this magnitude. The Forsaken were silent and sly in their ways, unlike the loud and unruly orcs or the wild and untamed trolls that numbered the most in the Horde. The enraged Sylvanas that now paced in circles before them, was definitely not silent or sly about her anger, and would not have looked out of place in an Orgrimmar bar fight.

"I will strip the flesh from your bones! Tear your arms from your body! Flay your skin and drown you in the acid rivers of my Undercity!"

She shook her head slightly, long strands of silver hair coming unloose from her own cowl with the motion. What use had rage now, when the deed was already done and the Iron Angel had already left them to their own devices? Indeed, the Banshee Queen she was devoted to body and soul would have simply stepped over this obstacle and continued in her scheming, not seethe and blather over an event already in the past.

"I will enslave you to my will! Bend your mind to mine! You will know pain! You will know the suffering that I have endured these long years!"

Cyndia shuddered at the thought of what torture her mistress had in mind for the black clad giant. But, she was unwilling to see her glorious queen further humiliate herself, even in a room that was not privy to outside eyes. And if Faranell would not rein in Sylvanas's wrath, it was her duty as a loyal subject to do so.

"Mistress," her voice dripped with sibilant sincerity, "this is unbecoming of you. You are our wise and calculating leader, not some barbaric kobold that just lost its candle. Would not it be wise to devise a new plan for our survival and for the future, instead of sinking ourselves in the past?"

The Dark Lady's normally cold irises flashed with blazing fire. The Banshee Queen took a threatening step towards her servant, a livid scowl stretched upon her hauntingly beautiful features.

"You think I have not thought of such things before, Cyndia? You think my mind has been empty all this time? No, Dark Ranger! I have thought and I have planned even as that despicable cretin walked away from us! Plots and schemes I have abound in my head. But, you don't understand, fellow Forsaken. None of them will work!"

She had expected many reactions to her comments of censure. This was not one of them.

"B-But, my queen. Surely you jest! We have come so far, so close to the realization of your dreams! If we simply give up now, we shall never see this world plagued by the same disease that fills our veins! If we only continued our work in the Apothecarium, then without doubt the results you desire will come swiftly!"

Sylvanas growled in frustration, and her gaze locked accusingly on Faranell.

"And just how, Dark Ranger, will we accomplish that? Will the orcs Thrall has left in my city be willing to overlook the screams of our test subjects? Perhaps Overseer Bragor would think the howls that emanate from our apothecaries' labor be that of the filthy wolves they ride upon? Or maybe, just maybe, the greenskins themselves will volunteer for our experiments with imbecilic grins on their faces and shout 'For the Horde' when we inject the first viral substances into their stocky, ugly bodies?"

Cyndia grimaced as the sarcasm rolled off her mistress's tongue like a lashing whip. She could almost feel the barbed stings upon her skin that were the sardonic words. The Dark Lady turned, spearing her subordinate with one more furious look before striding purposefully towards the Master Apothecary. Faranell managed one whimper of protest before the delicate yet unbelievably strong fingers of the Banshee Queen found his neck.

"And you, apothecary. You," the digits, slender and graceful, lovingly traced intricate patterns along the Forsaken male's pallid throat, attended by Sylvanas's surprisingly soft, almost affectionate words, "You caused me this humiliation. This shame. Had your concoction been effective, we would have no such problem at our hands. Had your potion been effective, Avarian would have bowed his head to me with but a single command. But, like always, you have disappointed me, Faranell. Both you and Putress have promised me much, only for your words to be as worthless as a bog-beast's gaseous waste. Tell me. Why should I not kill you now, where you stand?"

The Dark Lady's voice had not lost its softness, but the intent behind the gentle tone was hard enough to break steel.

"M-m-my lady. It was n-not my intention for the plague to f-fail," the apothecary stuttered nervously as the ghosting touch of his queen continued its dexterous path along his botched skin, "I d-did not know our most powerful version of the disease would not work against him!"

The kind fingers transformed into tearing claws of vengeance in an instant as the Banshee Queen clutched tight the master alchemist's throat.

"Excuses! More excuses! Is that all you are capable of, concocter of poisons? All I hear from your one remaining jaw are justifications and explanations for your failures, all of which have been repeated again and again until even the time-guardians of Nozdormu grow tired of hearing them. If that is the most you can give me, more excuses, than your deathbed shall be the very floor of this room."

Cyndia winced as the iron grip of her ruler continued to tighten, forcing Faranell to gurgle and gasp in vain attempts to speak.

"I wish this world to burn. I want this world reduced to ash and misery. I want all those who reside on this blasted, infernal piece of rock to know the pain of the Forsaken. Those are my dreams. My desires. To see suffering everywhere I walk. To witness the lands around me decay and wither at my passing. To watch as all life on this earth putrefy with the rot of the death plague. To have each and every one of this world's denizens take knee when their master, me, still perfect in death, still elegant in demise, pass their wretched frames wracked with contagion. I guided the Forsaken to this dream. To my dream. To a world where we would never be ostracized for our defiled forms. To a place where all beings suffered equally under the gaze of undeath. To our paradise. Your failings, and those of your predecessor have denied me this dream. Explain to me, Faranell, how you would solve this dilemma."

The apothecary could not explain. Nor reason. Nor plead. The Dark Lady's unyielding grasp around his neck had temporarily severed his windpipe. The master alchemist writhed in his queen's unforgiving hold, not for fear of dying; the dead had no need for air to breathe, but for fear of what should happen if he could not elucidate his ideas quick enough to please.

"He was perfect. Perfect for me and perfect for the Forsaken. So damned arrogant and conceited. So damned righteous and virtuous. Perfect for the plague to infect him. Imagine the shock of his followers as he goes back to them, his form wreathed with clouds of flies. Imagine their horror when he kills them all blindly at my command. It would have been glorious, magnificent…" the alchemist wheezed in reply, causing Sylvanas to look down at the struggling undead, her features a mask of casual indifference, "I needed a champion. One who could be the harbinger of my will. He was that one. Terrifying and powerful all in one armored body. Yet, instead of kneeling to me as you have promised, he insults me and degrades me. Instead of worshiping the very words I speak, his own directed towards me are filled with venom and spite. The undeath does not affect him. Your plague was insufficient. _You_ are insufficient."

Faranell's drooling tongue lolled limply from his throat as the Dark Lady's nailed fingers left shallow indents that wept blackened ichor along his neckline. A throaty whisper escaped the apothecary's orifice, faint and indistinct from the continued pressure applied to his throat.

"P-please… I have… a plan…"

Instead of relaxing her grip, the Banshee Queen's hand clasped tighter around the unfortunate alchemist's neck, nails digging even deeper into the man's diseased skin.

"And pray tell me, poisons master, what makes this plan of yours better than the last few ones? Why should I give you another chance when you have failed me so completely a dozen times more? Why should I simply not toss you into the ghoul pit? They have gotten quite feisty."

"N-Not this… time… I can… reverse… our… condition…"

Abruptly Sylvanas detached her palm from the Forsaken's neck, and Faranell fell back, instinctively shooting his own towards the bruised flesh to massage the pain from his nerves.

"I am listening."

The apothecary rubbed his battered cervix one last time before responding.

"The plague I had brewed with that wine was the most lethal one yet. I made sure that the alcohol would not dampen the effectiveness. I also ensured that the temperature needed to achieve mixture without affecting the virus would stay constant. No, my queen. The fault here does not lay with me, nor with my concoction. But rather with the body of our recipient."

Faranell's eyes dilated rapidly as he spoke, displaying fresh eagerness despite the abuse heaped upon him. Cyndia had been in his company long enough to know that the Master of the Apothecarium could go on rambling discourses on alchemy and matters of science for indefinite periods of time. But whereas those times were free of risk, now the alchemist could very well lose his head should his blather continue.

"I have had enough of your explanations, apothecary. You had best illuminate me regarding your new scheme before I reconsider your role in the ghoul pits," the Dark Lady snarled, forcing back the enthusiasm in the poison master's eyes.

"Of course! Of course! It is rather simple when you think about it," Faranell nodded his head fervently, "If there is nothing wrong with the concoction, than naturally there is something wrong with the victim. You yourself have said that our guest was no ordinary human, yes? Perhaps his insides follows this trend. It would not be strange to assume that something within his form prevents our disease from its work. I, myself would guess this is the very reason. A man that size cannot have regular dimensioned organs and expect to live for long. His heart would not be able to pump blood to his extremities, and his lungs would not be able to keep up with his body's need for oxygen. Yes. My assumption has to be correct."

The apothecary continued in his skull bobbing motion, irises shifting in contemplation. Cyndia resisted the urge to slap the man, then and there. Science-dabblers. Always more interested in their research than preserving their own lives. It was a good thing then, that Lady Sylvanas was more lenient on these types than others. A furtive glance towards her mistress told otherwise, however, as the Banshee Queen's features were twisted in what only could be described as deadly irritation.

"I did not ask you for details about his physique, poison maker! You said you could reverse our accursed condition. Speak quickly! My patience nears its end!"

"Y-yes, my queen," Faranell shrank back from the Dark Lady's fury, his drooping tongue lolling from side to side as he attempted to cool his ruler's anger with speech, "it is a hypothesis, and nothing more. If there exists something that can ward off the effects of the death plague in his body, then there is a chance that with further study, I can derive some usefulness from it. If… If I am correct in my assumptions… then the possibilities that will result would be boundless."

"And what are those assumptions?"

The Forsaken alchemist swallowed nervously, his skeletal fingers twitching with excitement.

"There exists a tome in the library of our Apothecarium, an aged relic from eons past. It was penned by a certain Dvaren Torias, a name that my cohorts and I are unfamiliar with, but have come to respect. In its tattered pages, are lengthy descriptions of illnesses and diseases and their cures; all documented in their fullest and signed with approval by a person with the title of Medicae. As you can imagine, such a book was extremely useful during the first developmental stages of our plague. However, what is intriguing, is that near the end of the volume, there are a few depictions of the differences between regular humans and what the author terms as 'Astartes'. From what I have gleamed, and that isn't much since this Torias fills much of his work with conjecture and speculation, 'Astartes' are fearsome warriors whose forms were enhanced in a number of ways to fight mankind's wars at the behest of an Imperium. Of course, the concept of physically engineering soldiers is laughable at best. No such technology exists to this date, and I am led to believe the author was a mere dreamer instead of an intellectual scholar."

"Get to the point, apothecary," Sylvanas spat.

"I am getting there, my queen. I am getting there," Faranell licked his lips, a habit of his not lost in undeath, made more disgusting by his missing lower jaw, "Now, this Avarian. He fits eerily well with the descriptions made by Torias. And if there are such warriors called 'Astartes' that exists on this world, he would most likely be one of them. But, I have my doubts. It is simply impossible to enhance one's body without drastic and undesirable consequences. However, there are enough similarities between him and the depictions to counter my own reservations. As is, I believe there are elements within his form that can greatly aid us; perhaps even save us from the rot that is undeath's sole disadvantage."

The Banshee Queen's features spread into a pleased smile.

"See, apothecary. If you had told me this beforehand, then we would have no need for our little altercation," she whispered soothingly, causing both Cyndia and Faranell to shiver involuntarily, "I would assume you have a way to tell if his body contains the necessary elements?"

"Yes. A syringe full of blood should do it. I can tell if there have been alterations to the body with any type of fluid, as long as it once belongs to him."

"Any type of fluid?" the Dark Ranger spoke for the first time, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

The alchemist master blanched visibly before responding.

"Yes, but I would much prefer it to be blood."

"But where's the fun in that?" Cyndia smiled, relishing in her thoughts.

"Then you will have his blood," Sylvanas cut in before the two could bicker further, "you will continue to pretend to be in his service, Hawkspear. And when the time is right, you will extract a sample from him for the Apothecarium."

Consternation ran amok in her mind, replacing her earlier bravado.

"But, mistress! You will send me to my death! He already knows we have tried to kill him with the plague. If I were to show my face, his retribution would surely befall me!"

"Then think of a way to deceive him! The journey from the Undercity to the Plaguelands will be long. You will have that time to contemplate."

The Dark Lady's eyes flashed with malevolent eagerness.

"Now go, Cyndia. And do not fail me."

* * *

The two sides met in combat, one bedecked in the white and crimson of the Red Leaf, the other clad in the frayed remnants of whatever clothing was worn before death, in an ear-splitting din of ragged groans and bellowed war-cries. Men and women, their snarling visages hidden by dour helms of red steel, hacked and hewed with adrenaline powered arms into the first of the wailing undead tide. Swords flashed in blurry arcs as they descended on rotting arms, shoulders, and heads, sending black blood spurting towards the sky. Shields smashed into leering, monstrous faces, shattering bone and driving their owners staggering back into their baying comrades. The first line of undead, no order, no semblance of formation, met determined resistance, and was swiftly felled, their prone forms lying defeated at the feet of the Crusaders.

More came, shambling past those who lived the undeath no more, emaciated arms outstretched to feel the sweet touch of warm, pulsating flesh. Instead, cold steel sank into their decaying frames, parting the pallid skin and maggot infested meat of their bodies in spurts of thick ichor. Some gasped out final moans of the Eternal Hunger, before their tortured souls finally gave in to the blessed release. Others, forms displaying the fresh attentions of well-wrought blades, continued to press the wall of armored metal that was the Crusaders. Kite-shaped slabs of metal frustrated their attempts to grapple and hold, blocking their reaching fingers from the temporary fulfillment of a bloody feast. Jaws unhinged, displaying putrid gums and uneven teeth, sounding wretched gurgling cries that demanded the need for a fresh meal to be satisfied.

Long edged broadswords once more drove down on revolting figures, splashing life fluid long useless onto plague-ridden soil. More creatures toppled, their blasphemous existence curtailed with able blade-work. Their prone bodies joined the slain corpses of the first few to reach the Scarlet battle line. But behind this second crashing wave of unholy monsters, was a third, close on their heels, and a fourth, and a fifth, and much, much more. Relentless, persistent, and untouchable by exhaustion, the Scourge tide continued their shambling gait forward, to either die under the weapons of the humans or drag them themselves under sheer weight of numbers.

Captain Edgar Vachon rammed the sharpened end of his rapier into the empty eye socket of a snarling man-thing, curses spitting from his lips as a thick gout of arterial spray erupted from the gory wound and splattered unwelcome drops on his naked skin. The zombie gave a phlegm-filled rattle, not from pain, but from disappointment. It was being denied its place at the feast, and it made its distress clear with rasping groans. The Scarlet officer shoved his dagger-esque sword deeper into the snarling face, twisting the blade with swift motions with his wrist. He felt his weapon entangle with the membranous folds of the thing's brain, and with a triumphant grunt, pulled free his steel from the monster's inner cranium, dragging along caught strands of grey tissue. The Scourge creature's one remaining eye blinked once at the sight of its brain matter coiled around the blade before its entire frame stiffened with rigor mortis.

Vachon allowed the abomination to collapse in a heap at his boots, his shield rising to meet the withered hands of another undead not two steps behind the fallen first. Dirt encrusted nails scraped at the iron coat of his arm strapped protection, sending a discordant, screeching noise ringing into the Crusader captain's ears. The rapier, freshly stained with blood and viscera, tilted upwards, and pierced the man's blood-flaked chin from below. The needle-like tip punctured deep into the skull and exploded outwards from the boned dome in a spurt of blackened ichor. The frantic scratching sounds stopped, and he removed his blade from the sagging corpse's jowl with a powerful tug, shattering the zombie's mandible into pieces in the process.

Another lurched within his sword range, before the one he had so recently dispatched could even hit the ground. This Scourge had long auburn hair, ragged and unkempt, but still recognizable. The hair was the only hint to the gender of this undead, as its features were a horrid mess of bite marks and missing flesh. Before he could maneuver his blade to strike, the creature was upon him, its terrifying visage of peeling skin and ripped sinew snarling and snapping hatefully. It was held only at bay by the solid bulk of his kite shield, the majority of the unholy creature being blocked firmly from inflicting harm. The zombie's gaunt limbs flailed madly at what little it could reach, striking at his shoulders and scrabbling at his chest. Vachon grimaced in disgust at the struggling, shriveled figure, desperate to grasp him in a fetid embrace and bear him to ground where it can make use of its mutilated maw. With a deft movement, the Scarlet commander jammed his sword into one of the woman's pale thighs, the stiletto-tip easily puncturing the sickly skin and rending apart the graying muscle that was hidden within. A frustrated growl issued from the thing's drool-slicked orifice as it sank on one knee, pus and ichor spilling from its gaping injury. Still, in its dilapidated state, the zombie continued in its attempts to bite and tear, mindless defiance in its mucous-filled pupils.

Vachon stepped back, hard to do with the Crusaders arranged in formation behind and beside him.

"Sorry lass," he smiled harshly, "but I prefer blondes."

The Scourge thing hissed in response, as though if refusing to acknowledge the Scarlet captain's declaration of noninterest, and stretched out a withered, twitching hand. The unbending end of his rapier speared into the woman's disfigured face, followed by thirty two inches of cold steel as the weapon was rammed up to its hilt. Blackened blood spurted forth, drenching his gloved hand and sword arm in the foul smelling fluid. The undead slumped forward, its dead weight held from collapse by the edged metal. Vachon placed a booted foot on the slain monster's chest, and kicked the Scourge from his blade.

He was immediately assailed by two more of the walking dead, one who wore the frayed garments of a farmer, the other a malformed adolescent with one arm. His sword thrust into the torso of the adult undead, lodging deep into its chest cavity where it embedded into bone. A gurgle sputtered from the creature's flaccid mouth as it squirmed in its struggle to escape impalement. Oaths sprang freely to his lips as he was forced to keep his entire body strength behind the hilt of the blade to prevent the zombie from wriggling free. This left him instantly vulnerable to the attacks of the juvenile. Already it had shuffled past its cohort skewered at the tip of his rapier, and in its drunken, swaying gait, managed to evade Vachon's guard. Its one remaining limb latched onto the white and red tabard of the Crusade, and tugged hard. He resisted, digging his feet into the dirt, but the Scourge possessed an unholy amount of vigor and would not soon give up its prey.

In desperation, he wrenched free his blade, releasing the zombie it previously trapped, and angled it to pierce his assailant's head. It was only when the first undead, still weeping blood from the cavernous hole in its chest, closed the distance in one stride and clutched his shoulder in a firm hold did he realize his mistake. With a yell of fear and anger, he turned his rapier on this persistent foe, fully intending to quell the threat before it could take his life. But, in his struggle, he had again committed a mistake. He had forgotten the juvenile. The adolescent creature relinquished its grasp on his tabard and instead dragged his sword arm towards its ravenous maw. Vachon winced and shut tight his eyes, knowing full well what those diseased teeth could do.

Suddenly, he felt the emaciated fingers come loose and ductile from his chainmail. His eyes snapped back open in a flash, and the headless form of the youngster met his surprised stare.

Captain Melrache swung his claymore once more, the heavy two-handed sword hewing through two of the oncoming Scourge in one brutal stroke. A barking laugh issued from the dark complexioned Crusader's grinning mouth, full of grim humor and dour wit.

"Caught with your trousers down eh, Vachon?" the swarthy face of his fellow officer remained free of burden, even as he brought his cumbersome weapon down, edge first, on the crown of a long dead woman.

He was too busy to reply, intent on wrestling away the other zombie still attached to his shoulder. His rapier, now unburdened, rose and fell in powerful thrusts, stabbing into his foe's unprotected neck and side. With a final, raspy moan, the abomination toppled and ceased to move.

Another zombie immediately stumbled forward, a replacement for the former from the endless tide of undeath. He rammed his sword into this new opponent's wide open mouth, unmindful of the geyser of spouting blood that followed.

"This is ugly work," he remarked to Melrache, choosing to ignore his comrade's earlier jibe, "And hopeless too. We are not meant to hold the line against such numbers. Where are the Champions, the finest warriors amongst us? Where is Herod, their exalted leader? Why do they not take the field beside us? If they were here, we could at least have some hope of winning."

The creature dropped, but not peacefully. The virus in its half-clotted veins refused to give in so easily, and forced the monster to twist and shudder in its death throes. A downwards thrust from his rapier ended the creature's convulsions.

"The Champions have been taken from us by the Iron Angel. They have not shown themselves since our gathering at The Bulwark," his friend replied, his broad blade detaching a zombie's leg from its hip in a mad welter of blood, "An ill-omen to suspicious men, perhaps."

Vachon smashed his shield into the stomach of an additional monster, freshly pressed against him by its craven masters. The undead fiend buckled from the blow, and he easily dispatched it with a well placed stab into its exposed skull.

"And you are not one of those suspicious men, Darrik?" he growled, eying the next zombie that extended its clawed hands towards him.

"No. I am a pragmatist at best," Melcrache's claymore descended on a Scourge's head, splitting its cranium apart from crown to chin, "I see the enemy in front of me, and I kill them. That is all there is."

Their conversation was halted as the wave of baying undead hit them with full force. All along the line Crusaders fought desperately for their lives, hacking again and again with gore-drenched blades at the tide of relentless, misshapen forms. But whereas in the beginning, when fresh strength surged through their veins, now, their arms had been numbed with the efforts of continuous combat. Sword strikes that could have killed instantly if well placed, instead, inflicted long lacerations that bled yet were not fatal. Creatures made hideous by decay that should have been easily slain when the mind remained calm now took numerous rushed and panicked blows before they were put down. The draining vitality of the swordsmen would soon be their downfall, as even the most hardened veteran could be dragged down when exhausted by these mindless beasts.

However, the worse was yet to come. Those that were recently slain shuddered and jerked on the soil laden earth, groaning as new life was forced into their defeated frames. One by one, they hauled themselves back up, bearing the massive wounds that had so recently destroyed their mortal shells. Eyes that minutes ago had been blissfully dull with the shroud of death, now flashed with malicious, tortured light. It was unfair that these thralls, newly granted release from their tormented fates, were once again forced into the servitude of the Lich King.

Vachon flourished his weapon and stabbed down, the slender edge of his sword impaling one of the undead before it could fully rise, and sending it back to the floor in a rapidly expanding pool of blood.

"Damn these things! They never give up! They never retreat! And they don't stay dead!" he shouted to be heard over the ever increasing volume of wretched moans, "Already we grow tired of this fight. It won't be long before they overwhelm us!"

Melrache laughed again, his two-handed sword crashing down upon a freshly risen zombie. The claymore did its grisly work, cleaving apart the unholy creature in a fountain of blackened blood.

"As the Iron Angel would say, 'have faith'. The Emperor protects, after all," his friend's tone was sincere, which brought a frown upon his own countenance.

"Would you abandon the Light then?" another came at him, growling in hunger. His rapier thrust twice, and the undead fell, two gruesome holes in its chest frothing dark fluid, "I thought you would be more stubborn than to accept the angel's words."

"And you are disappointed, friend? He does not call for us to abandon our religion. Nor does he insult our beliefs. What is there not to like? Besides, the Emperor fits exceedingly well with the Light, you have to admit that."

Both their weapons struck at the same time, his, piercing a screeching woman's cheek, Darrik's swinging sideways to decapitate a snarling man. Their two opponents dropped, thoroughly dead. But it would not be long before their craven master summoned them back to life once more.

"Has his speech affected you that much? By Terenas's Crown. Am I the only one who thinks he should prove himself to us first before we accept him?" his question went unanswered as that very moment, High Inquisitor Whitemane's voice rang in their ears.

"First rank! Fall back! Second rank! Forward!"

* * *

The clash of shields against bone can be heard, even from my vantage point. The Guardsmen have slammed their archaic forms of defense in unison against the plague creatures, pushing them back temporarily into their wretched kin. Seizing the brief respite, the first line of soldiers immediately retreat behind the advancing ranks of the second, marching forward to take their place in the heated melee. A third line awaits the second to tire and a fourth line awaits for the third. The warriors who were the first to shed the foe's blood rest their weary arms and wait for the fourth rank to fall back so they can once more take the field.

This will occur again and again, with each man rotating his time on the front with those in the back. Each soldier will be allowed a certain time to rest before his turn to fight arrives once more. This allows for a constantly refreshed and untiring formation, and against a vitality sapping foe like the Scourge, it will prove invaluable. Such a useful tactic was devised by the Legionaries of the feudal world, Arretium, against the Keltic barbarians that raid their borders. Their recorded battles are listed in the Codex Astartes as classic examples of ancient warfare, and studied extensively by all who would bear the title of a Space Marine.

The fresh second rank steps into the place of the first, and begin the slaughter anew, their broadswords hacking down with fiery enthusiasm.

I shake my head slightly, and the image my visor grants me blurs with the motion. Their maneuver of rotating men in combat is awkward at best, and downright clumsy at worst. It is a miracle that none of their number was dragged down by the monstrosities that hound the retreating front line. But, that is to be expected. These men and women are not used to the concept of formation warfare, where victory is determined by orderly lines of battle, not undisciplined charges and foolish quests for glory. They will learn quickly, this new way of battle. They will have to. War rears her head, and none can escape her covetous gaze. Either they learn, or they die.

A sub-vocalized order zooms my artificial view towards the one who is in overall command of this expedition. The Lady Commissar herself. Sally Whitemane. Her slender figure is covered in the red and white cloth of her order, all except her legs, which are exposed to the elements. A grimace creases my lips. Such undignified attire for one whose station demands severity in every action. When there is ample time on my hands, I will need to order some of the civilians in the baggage train to make a new uniform her. As well as one of those skull-embroidered, high peaked caps the Commissars of the Imperium are so fond of to replace that ridiculous head garment of hers.

It is faintly disturbing to me, that this woman would so willingly accept a title that is unbeknownst to her, just because I was the one to have bestowed it. Such an act reeks of blind devotion, something that is better suited for the Order Militant of the Ecclesiarchy, than the logical and pragmatic officers of the Imperial Guard. Had I been one of the traitor Astartes from the ilk that followed Horus, then this Whitemane would have accepted the title of cult leader just as willingly. But her boundless faith is a boon as much as it is a drawback. She believes fervently in the Immortal Emperor, and such passionate reverence to the Lord of Mankind will keep the dark whispers of Chaos from poisoning her mind. As long as I am there to rein in her more zealous ways, then she will be an able commander of her men and utterly incorruptible.

I am reminded once more of the Canoness of the Order of the Valorous Heart. With a snarl on my lips, I vanquish that memory before it can fully sink into my conscience.

The former Inquisitor is in conference with two of her captains, both of whom were in the front ranks and the first to meet the enemy in combat. One is a man with a brown mustache and a tuft of hair on his chin. A bloodied blade, more akin to an elongated dirk than a sword, is clutched in one of his gloved hands, the other being too busy in adding weight to his words with rapid gestures. The second man possesses a darkened complexion; he too possesses facial hair like the first, though his head has been shaved bald and kept that way for some time. The grip of a heavy, broad blade, the size and length of my own chainsword, rests in his fists, the tip having been planted into the ground to allow its wielder respite. Vachon and Melrache, I dredge their names from the depths of my mind.

The one called Vachon is speaking to his Commissar, and the conversation between them is heated as displayed by the captain's frantic motions with his shield arm. The fool. He thinks I cannot hear his voice from this distance. He is dreadfully wrong. My Lyman's Ear easily picks up the words he sprouts from his rebellious mouth, filtering it apart from the cacophony of noise that is the ongoing battle. He is expressing his concerns about how his fellows are so quick to accept the Emperor for their liege in lieu of the Light. The snarl on my features quickly contorts into a scowl of hatred. The man does not understand that the Emperor is the master of all mankind, whether he chooses to believe in Him or not. I fight down the urge to stride down this incline and crush the man's head into a pulp for his heresy.

Their exchange continues, and the seditious captain changes the subject when he sees that Whitemane will not budge from her beliefs. Good. I was not wrong in giving her rank then. The dialogue now incorporates me as the main issue, and I sneer as Vachon voices his thoughts. He proclaims that I need to prove my valor and martial might to them before they can accept me. A laughable and irrational assertion. I am Astartes, and I need not prove myself to anyone except my brothers and the Emperor Himself.

I find myself wishing that these humans I have recruited belonged to any one of the myriad of Imperial Guard regiments that defend the Imperium's realms. Cadians or Death Korps, if the power to choose was granted to me. Though they are not Space Marines, at least those Guardsmen would obey without hesitation my commands and wage war against a superior foe without complaint, decidedly unlike these crimson bedecked warriors who call themselves Crusaders.

I hastily reprimand myself for these contemplations. One must not ask for more from the Great Lord of Mankind, but instead give thanks for what he already possesses. The fact that I have found people affected by the Great Crusade on this misbegotten planet is a testament that the Emperor is with me, and He has not forgotten the plight of one of his servants.

A horrendous scream sounds from the Scarlet battle line, lost in the tumultuous din of battle to all except me. My enhanced ears picks out the cry from the background noise and I shift my gaze immediately to the source. A man belonging to Solliden's milita placed on the left flank of the Guardsmen, his features contorted in terror, is dragged by putrefied hands from his place into the mass of voracious maws. I watch as he struggles against his assailants, wailing his lungs out as the unholy creatures surrounding him tears great mouthfuls from his body with their rotten teeth. The man's pitiful cries end swiftly as he is pulled to the ground and disappears under a swarm of revolting frames.

Had I not undergone the enhancement trials deep under the fortress-monastery of the Death Spectres, then perhaps I would have felt some grief over such a gruesome death. Maybe even lose sleep over the sight I have just witnessed. But Corax's blood flows through my veins, and I have not the luxury of weakness that is human emotions. My twin hearts do not beat faster in horror at the fate this nameless man has just suffered, nor do they wallow in compassion for his friends and family that will soon hear of his end. I have seen too much in my existence as a champion of mankind to feel such feeble sentiments. All I take notice of, is that another life has been lost in humanity's endless wars against its foes. All I care about, is how many more will be needed before this world fully falls in compliance with the Imperial Creed.

The blood of martyrs fuels the Imperium.

Another martyr has just added his to the pool.

His death was not in vain, however. His cohorts in the militia ranks fight harder, forcing the strength back into their limbs. They are not trained soldiers, and they cannot rely on the same rotating formation that keeps the swordsmen from tiring. Instead, their front rank is forced to fight until they exhaust themselves. But, they do not give up, and continue to rain blows on the heads of their foes with sword, cudgel, and axe. None desire the same fate that has befallen the man. None wish to feel the putrid breath of the hungry dead upon their skin as darkness blinds their vision.

I cannot blame them for their fear. Fear is a natural part of the human psyche, just as influential as courage and honor. To deny fear is to deny one's humanity. To believe oneself fearless is to revolt against human nature.

I am Astartes. I have been genetically re-forged on the operating tables deep below the fortress-monastery on Occludus to know no fear. What does that makes me?

Behind the cold, impenetrable ceramite that is my battle helm, my lips parts into a grim smile.

I am Astartes. I have sacrificed my humanity so that others may keep theirs.

I am no longer human.

A curt order from the Lady Commissar causes my head to swivel in her direction. She too sees the danger in leaving the militia unsupported for too long on both flanks. Her command sends the Guardsmen in reserve into the fray before it is too late. Good. Her sense of timing is to be commended. In disciplined lines, the spearmen advance to aid their allies on the left. But simply pushing from the civilian soldiers from the back will do nothing to help their troubles. So instead, the spear wielding Crusaders wheel before they contact, slamming into the undead at a flanking angle. A cacophony of wailing groans emits from scores of mouths as stabbing polearms find their mark. The horde assaulting the left block of militia thins by a satisfactory number, with many a zombie growling their last breaths impaled at the end of well aimed lances.

The right is similarly reinforced. However, whereas the spearmen were orderly and methodical in their advance, the warriors that consist of the rightmost reserve are anything but that. Half of them rush forward into the confines of the militia they are supposed to support, pushing men and women out of order in their need to wage war. The other half performs the same maneuver as their comrade in arms at the left flank, but with far less discipline. These warriors are called Myrmidons, if I recall correctly. So named by their fellows for their zealotry both in and out of battle. Prayers to the Light and to the Emperor tear from their throats as they surge forward en masse. Their weapons, one in each hand, descend wrathfully on their foes, a whirlwind of fury that cannot easily be avoided. Many plague creatures are scythed down by their brutal charge, but many more await their blessed release.

An undisciplined rabble these Myrmidons are. I will need to have words later with Whitemane to curb their unbridled enthusiasm.

Another order from the Lady Commissar sends the cavalry, under Captain Elisa, into battle. The image my visor presents me is a magnificent one indeed. Whinnying horses surge forward, carrying their riders forward on broad backs and steady legs. My primary heart hammers slightly harder. There is something glorious about this sight that brings back memories of my years as a member of one of my chapter's bike squadron. Unlike these steeds of organic flesh and muscle, mine was a roaring engine of devastation, armored in layers of plasteel and sporting twin-linked bolters on its prow. Like bolts of lightning we struck our enemies, rampaging through them with our chainblades, and leaving naught but corpses and ash behind our destructive wake.

The horses of these Guardsmen cannot compare with my bike, but are noble and stalwart beasts nonetheless. Rider and mount alike will swiftly travel behind the mindless mass of Scourge and strike them from the rear. Again and again these horsemen will assail the unprotected flank of the enemy, until our opponents finally break completely under the onslaught. The infantry is the anvil upon the Emperor's Wrath is made manifest. The cavalry is the hammer that is the deliverer of that Wrath.

A small band of beings follow the horsemen in their advance. I feel hatred bubbling down deep within my stomach as I shift my gaze to them. Xenos and their human lackeys. The members of the Argent Dawn. The paladin, Gyran, leads this motley crew, a warhammer gripped grimly in two hands. Keina has left her place by the archers and has joined this group, along with Vareesa, and the greenskin, Karduk. I also see the Scourge elf, Malicios, or a name akin to that, accompanying the band. Together, they number a score and a half. Their presence here revolts me to the very core, and more than once I had to holster my boltgun to stay my itching trigger finger.

I am loathe to admit that I need them. Indeed I would rather shove my own chainsword down my throat than confess publically that their presence here is invaluable. But invaluable they are. I can count on the paladin and his group to accomplish whatever I order them to do, as well as rely on Gyran's logical thinking in battle. I can rely on them because they are what the Crusaders are not. Highly-motivated, well-trained, soldiers. Soldiers. Not warriors who would break ranks to charge as soon as the enemy shows its face. I have already spent much time ingraining the theory of fighting in formation to Whitemane and her captains. I can only thank the Emperor they were willing to listen. Had they remained entrenched in their old ways, then this battle would have quickly descended into a confused melee that would cost us a tremendous amount of manpower.

The Argent Dawn are what I hope my Guardsmen will aspire to and later overcome in terms of training, tactics, and discipline.

It is they who will bypass the Scourge hordes and seek out the damnable puppet master that keeps these pitiful zombies from truly dying. If I were to send a detachment of Crusaders on the same assignment, then I cannot be sure they would complete it. Their blind devotion hampers them as much as it helps them. Zealotry is never a replacement for obedience, and faith is never a substitute for discipline.

I have sent a ragtag gaggle of xenos and traitors instead of loyal humans on a task that may very well decide the course of this battle.

The irony is not lost on me.

Cries of alarm rent the air and my visor swiftly searches for the source. A snarl of disbelief wreathes my features as I glare at the reason for the commotion. An armored finger thumbs the trigger of my chainsword and my weapon gives a throaty hum in response.

The Scarlet battle line has been compromised.

* * *

Impossible! Impossible! How could such a thing happen? How could the formation break so suddenly and without warning?

Commissar Whitemane gave a shout of dismay as the wall of swordsmen before her buckled and strained against the Scourge tide. A gap had appeared in the rotation between the third and fourth line, how she did not know. A gap now exploited by the undead. Mindless creatures they were, but even they could see weakness when it appeared. A wave of howling monsters staggered into the Crusader lines, made ragged and uneven by the breach in the ranks, and weathered the frantic sword swings that bit deep into their diseased flesh. But the zombies could sense that their time for a bloody feast was near, and ignored the rain of blows that descended upon them. They surged into the break between ranks, and dragged men down left and right.

The formation splintered. Thoughts of self-preservation overcame all other considerations in panicked minds. Men and women broke ranks to engage the unholy creatures that now clung and grappled at them, not realizing that without the protection of warriors to their left and right, they would now be more easily overwhelmed. War cries and screams of pain merged into a horrendous din, of which her own cries were unheard and unheeded.

"Damn you! You will not waver! You will not falter! You will not shame the Emperor and the Iron Angel by dying this day!" she yelled. But if any of her men noticed, they gave no sign, still embroiled in a chaotic melee with the Scourge horde.

Frustration seeped into her conscience and she strode forward, intent on the raging battle, her staff held high and ready to dole out punishment for disobedience.

She needn't have bothered.

_"To the darkness I bring light!"_

A roaring voice, distorted and sounding of grating metal, sliced through her veil of vexation.

_"To the ignorant I bring faith!"_

She turned and was greeted with the sight of an immense figure surging towards her and the embattled Guardsmen, clad in midnight black, a shrieking toothed sword clasped in a two handed grip.

_"To the enemy I bring DEATH!"_

With a bellow of vengeance, the angel surged into the packed mass of combatants, and visited ruin and devastation upon undead frames.

* * *

_Leafy8765: Corruption in the 40k universe isn't an instant thing. Chaos feeds on the extremes of emotion, so it is dependent on how the person being corrupted reacts to situations and also how low/high his or her mental fortitude is. For King Varian, his fault is that he is extremely protective of his people, which the sorcerer attempts to take advantage of. There is a reason why compassion doesn't exist in the Imperium. The Ruinous Powers would most likely taint those who are kind and turn them into monsters._

_TheEmperorProtects: Thank you! In terms of the length of this story, it will probably be along the lines of 150 to 200 chapters. So you are right about barely chipping the iceberg! The ethereal Marines are the Legion of the Damned. Basically, they'll arrive when Imperial forces are losing on a battlefield, and turn the tides in their favor. So a "here comes the cavalry" thing when the time comes._

_Emperor Chronicler: New weapons, yes. New tactics, that too. Swords and shields won't cut it when facing what the Word Bearer and his dark masters have in store for both Azeroth and the Imperium. The next fifteen to twenty chapters will be centered on the Plaguelands, so you can expect much Scourge to be cleansed!_

_Grey Knight Stern: The Space Wolves are the most laid-back of Astartes chapters in the Imperium. I would think they would be a tad more accepting of the xeno elves, but would still remain hateful. As for the Blood Angels… once the Black Rage takes place… yeah… :P_

_Overdrive1: I have seen that picture before. It is not quite what I envisioned, since Whitemane isn't much of a "reveal my assets" kind of girl. Being the head honcho of a zealous, religious organization kind of kills that concept. However, I would imagine Vareesa would wear such a uniform if it would tempt Avarian towards her arms. Cliffhangers are what I do best…_

_Salle1980: Thanks!_

_Hand of Sand: The Draenei are an interesting specimen. They do worship the Light, but their version is not that of the Emperor's. They will of course be incorporated in this fic, but it will not be until later. And being Astartes, Avarian will hate Chaos a lot more than xenos. The Vrykul will most likely be abhumans. Thinner versions of ogryns maybe. Turalyon has disappeared, yes. Whitemane was using a metaphor at that time, since it is well known that Turalyon was the right hand man of Lothar._

_EvilManicX: Shotguns, yes. Lancers, probably not. Lasguns, however, are a definite possibility._

_Night Hunter MGS: Indeed! _

_Soulless Reader: Not the battle for Andorhal mind you. The Scourge they are facing are the ones from Felstone Field and the Writhing Haunt. Drawn by the Scarlet cavalry in the earlier chapters. The dreadnought, of course, will appear. Just later. :P Northrend is the origin of the Scourge, so you bet Avarian will visit that place. _

_Avid Reader Guy & Lunatic Pandora1: Agreed!_

_Akira Stridder: Our hero possesses only a handful of grenades, and a limited amount of bolter ammo. He really can't arm the Crusaders to an Imperial Guard regiment's standards._

_Bdun: Buckshot for the win!_

_Vashanti: Thanks!_

_Mattrocks: If magic was not a factor, Avarian would be easily a match against the Lich King in terms of swordsmanship. However, since magic is clearly a factor, our hero would be in dire predicaments indeed._

_Peanuckle: I do have Acts of Faith planned. But they will be in later chapters._

_Chris Adair: The spirit healer will not be incorporated. It is merely a game mechanic that allows the player's character to respawn, and thus, will not be used in this story. _

_Timewatch: Rocks and shotguns make awesome combinations, I agree. :P_

_Hammerchuckery: Assault cannon rounds and heavy bolter rounds are the most limited of Avarian's munitions store. The Land Speeder can and very easily cut down a vast amount of ghouls and zombies, but that would be overkill. It is better to save the very best of your weapons for more, direr threats._

_HnS-Ryouichi: Do not insult the flashlight, my friend. In the fluff, lasguns are considered to be very deadly and efficient weapons. In all the books I've read containing the Imperial Guard, lasgun effects have been described as "sawing through human bodies" or "blowing off limbs". The SC Marine Gauss Impaler would be an autogun in 40k terms. The reason I rate carapace armor as the equivalent of Starcraft power armor, is because carapace armor is actually very tough. They can block bolter and lasgun fire, which is nothing to sneeze about. And the reason why SC Marines die quicker, is because they're a bunch of convicts brainwashed to fight the Confederation's enemies. Also, the Tyranids have the Zerg beat in terms of acidy stuff. Fleshborers, Devourers, Venom Cannons, Stranglewebs and the likes. And Tyranids do slice up Space Marines, however, it is the only the higher, synapse creatures that do so, such as Warriors, Carnifexes, and Hive Tyrants. Hormagaunts, which would be the equivalent to a Zergling, are easily crushed by any Astartes. The same goes for Rippers and Termagaunts, as well as the lesser Tyranid organisms. The Titan-hunting variants of the Baneblades are only effective because they are used in pairs or trios. That, and they possess the same weapons a Titan would possess. And Titans are known to hurt other Titans. Avarian does have a heavy bolter. It is, however, bolted to the prow of his Land Speeder. :P_

_Lazylegionspark: A Space Marine battle barge is one of the most powerful spaceships constructed by the Imperium. The reason why it, and it alone can curbstomp much of the Starcraft universe, is because it so damned technologically advanced compared to the SC races. Anything the Protoss or the Terran can throw at it, will most likely be absorbed in its Void Shields, which are significantly more powerful and useful than Protoss shields. And there are its multiple lance batteries, plasma torpedoes, and bombardment cannon that can overwhelm entire fleets. If you go to any sci-fi forums, such as SpaceBattles or , the consensus there supports my own notion. _

_Xynth: Thank you!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Shock and awe is next chapter. :P_

_Lord-Emmanuel-Darkov: Indeed!_

_StGene: I've never played Left 4 Dead… :P_


	36. Not Their Angel

Chapter 35

My chainsword wails its hymn of slaughter as it descends on the blotched, sickened form of the Scourge creature. Intent on the panicked Guardsman, it does not notice my presence until it is too late. A muted groan of surprise issues from its unhinged maw as the kiss of monomolecular teeth graces its diseased skin. Then it dies. The song my weapon sings becomes harsh and dissonant, made so by whirring blades sawing through flesh and bone. The unholy abomination flops into two twitching pieces, cleanly bisected in twain. The fountain of blood that follows is impressive, and a decadent amount splashes onto my polished war plate.

My primary heart beats faster, fueled by the first surges of combat stimulants. My secondary heart keeps at its original pace, for it is only in the direst circumstance that I have need for both organs to sustain increases in adrenaline.

The man I have just saved, his features hidden beneath cold steel like mine, stumbles back in shock. But that lasts only a second. I see the alarm dissipate from his armored frame, replaced with awe and wonder. He lifts an arm high, mailed glove clasping a gore drenched sword to salute me. I do not return the gesture, for my legs have already taken me into the thick of the fray. His voice hounds me, however, a sound that I have heard too many times on too many battlefields.

"The Iron Angel! The Iron Angel is with us! Praise the Light!" he cries out, barely heard over the din of clashing metal and bellowed shouts.

The screech of my chainblade, joyous at the prospect of more bloodshed, drowns out all other noise including the man's shout. The whirring teeth drive down, sinking deep into another of the foul foe, and leaves it on the ground missing half its head. My next blow, made deadlier, made stronger, by artificial muscles laced within my power suited arm, crashes into a stumbling monster. Gnashing curved spikes do their grisly work, and the blackened spray of ichor that erupts from the plague fiend's sunken chest tells me the work has been done well. The ragged, disheveled body collapses, life fluid bubbling from the horrendous gash and onto the dark soil.

I have holstered my boltgun via the mag-locks on my suit's leg plate, not wishing to waste valuable ammunition on weak enemies such as these. It rests silently at my side, its venerable machine spirit placated and waiting patiently for the call to war and violence. My left arm, the one usually encumbered with my bolter, now freed from its duty, lashes out in a powerful strike. The back of my fist, layered like the rest of my armor in thick ceramite, meets the mutilated features of an undead. The following crunch is satisfying to my ears, and the resulting view from my blow is equally as pleasing. The thing's head snaps back, face caved in, spewing fragments of splintered bone from its fatal wound.

As the plague monster falls, my chainsword performs a brutal dance in my other hand's grip, hacking and chopping onto inhuman heads while avoiding the red and white bodies of my Guardsmen allies. The throaty hum of my weapon is contagious as it kills, and I find my spirits lifted by the simple drone of mechanized motors. The spirit of the machine that resides within the chainsaw blade is not as complicated as the one that lives within my boltgun. It is an undemanding conscience, and asks not for holy oils to be plied to its serrated teeth or prayers of reverence to be issued to its proud form. All it wants, the humble chainsword, a rugged tool in the vast arsenal of humanity, is to spill the blood of the foe. All I want, the humble Astartes, a divine instrument of the Emperor's Wrath, is to spill the blood of the foe.

We are a perfect match. Simple describes the essence of a chainblade. To kill and to butcher. Simple describes the goal of all Space Marines. To destroy the enemies of the Emperor.

The chainsword agrees with my thoughts. Understands them. The gurgling cry it gives as it churns its way through an undead's midsection is its roar of concurrence. The spray of viscera and shredded flesh that results; the evidence of its comprehension.

I leave the corpses of those I have just slain to be trampled upon as I wade further into the battling mass of the living and the dead.

A zombie has pinned a Crusader to the dank earth, snapping jaws inches away from the woman's revealed face. Her helm lies next to her, shed unwillingly from her head in the heat of the confused melee. The Scourge is crouched over her, forcing its slobbering jowls closer and closer to her naked skin. It nears no further. My gauntleted palm descends upon the foul aberration's skull and snares its cranium in an iron grip. A brief raspy grunt escapes its defiled lips which in turn transforms quickly into a long howl of frustration as I lift the creature from its trapped prey. It writhes and kicks in my grasp, and I am surprised at the vigor in its struggling form. But deny me the same respite from a ravenous hunger, then I too would fight against my tormentor with all my strength.

Its thrashing stops abruptly, and I relax my hold, feeling the gelatinous remnants of brain matter seep and flow around my fingers. Even though the zombie possesses an unholy amount strength in its withered body, its durability is still well within the frailty of humans. I cast the carcass away, glad to be free from the touch of such a corrupted thing.

The woman, her countenance hardened by war but not unpleasant to the eye, pushes herself back up. Sword forgotten on the trodden soil, she cries out to me, one arm stretching out to brush against my armor. Her tone is laced with the hysteria only battle can bring, but in it I detect the traces of worship and adulation. I wonder what her hazy eyes see before her. How she views me. A mighty warrior beyond compare? An angel who has lost his wings? A god of death and devastation? She would be correct if she were to select any one of those choices. Even more so if she sees me as all three. For the first, I am to my brothers. The second I am to the citizens of the Imperium. And the third I am to the enemies of man.

The servos in my power armor whine as they work the false muscles in my suit. They take me away from the still reaching woman, propelling me deeper into the ocean of combatants.

Three strokes and I slay three more of the foe, picking them out from the chaos that was once a proper battle line. The slickness of their blood makes my chainsword sound happier, more content. The dry screeching is gone, now replaced with a satisfied purr. But my weapon is far from being satiated. It has slaked its thirst on the ichor of the damned, but as always, it still demands more. More blood to spill. More flesh to rend. More enemies to slay.

That, at least, I am willing to provide.

Dressed in rags frayed from decay, a man with gory chunks torn from his neck sways drunkenly towards me. Its jaws are coated with fresh streams of life fluid and as it opens its revolting orifice, I spot the pieces of caught meat that linger in the uneven spaces of its teeth. So this one has feasted already. A shame today was its last chance for a meal. My chainblade skewers the monster in the stomach, merrily chewing away at its innards. A second later and I drag my sword out, spilling its blackened intestines and long useless organs out into the daylight. To my disgust, I see portions of human flesh, pale and healthy in comparison, among the shriveled bags of pus and coils of entails that now litter the floor. I make my revulsion known by jamming the tip of my chainsword into its still open maw.

Let it taste something that can bite back.

I twist the sputtering weapon, unmindful of the arterial spray that spews forth and splatters droplets on my breastplate Aquilla. I continue my way forward, ignoring the sagging corpse without its head.

They know that I am in their midst now. The Crusaders that is. The shouted praise of those I have saved from grisly fates and the roared approval of those who have seen my martial strength firsthand intermix with the furious sounds of the still raging battle. The discordant shriek of my chainsword is not hard to miss either. The humans around me fight harder, wielding their archaic swords against their assailants with renewed vigor, each desperately trying to acquit themselves well under my gaze. Where minutes ago, the formation was all but shattered into pieces, now, the first semblances of order begin to assert themselves. Men and women crush the doubts that previously threatened to overwhelm their minds and press against the unholy enemy with fiery vengeance. Their voices rise above the tumult, and the first beginnings of a massed cheer assails my hearing.

They know not my name, but they know what I am.

"_Angel! Angel! Angel!"_ the cry spreads like wildfire, ripping from each throat in a roaring ovation that overpowers even my chainblade's mechanical howl in volume, _"Angel! Angel! Angel!"_

If I were a mortal man, perhaps I would have found such adulation to be gratifying. Maybe even pleasing. Many lesser men live their whole lives with scant recognition for their achievements, many more with none at all. Those who are recognized bask in the attention of their peers, however brief it may be, and forever remember it as their moment of glory. It is a most fitting irony then, that the Emperor made us Space Marines, the greatest warriors of humanity lauded by all, to be utterly indifferent to the accolades that mean so much to our distant kin. We do not require others to validate our existence. We know we are superior to normal men in every aspect. We know we are the best mankind can offer against this hostile universe. Yet, we do not enjoy the adoration of the Imperium's people, and in some cases, outright detest it.

Inquisitor Xera once asked me why the Death Spectres, like the rest of the Adeptus Astartes, do not seek acknowledgment for our duties. I had struggled hard to answer her question, for a simple medium like language could not possibly describe what a Space Marine thinks of his sacred task. In the end, I could only find one phrase that fit will with my beliefs and those of my brothers.

Service is its own reward.

I do not need the accolades of these crimson clad Guardsmen. Nor their cheers. They waste the breath in their lungs celebrating my arrival when they instead should be focused on killing the foe. A frown of disapproval wreathes my features, and the first phrases of censure begin to form on my lips. With difficulty, I halt the reprimand before it can enter my helm's vocalizers. I remind myself that I fight besides humans, not the ceramite covered frames of my battle-brothers. I cannot expect them to match the feats of my fellow Astartes, but that does not stop me from wishing they could. Had the squad of Sergeant Darkur been with me, then there would be no need for petty speeches to the masses or a continued search for allies. If only my own squad was with me…

Damnation! Why does my conscience continue in these pointless contemplations? The Honored Ones are gone. Dead. Their remains lie within the hallowed crypts deep beneath the planet crust of Occludus, honored by the rest of my chapter. I should have fallen on that accursed battlefield as well and joined them in an eternal rest. But such a fate, as welcome as it would be, was not granted to me. And rightfully so. A glorious death I do not deserve.

"_Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"_

The fools still cheer. If they only knew the turmoil within my mind.

My chainsword howls its dirge of righteous slaughter as it impales an undead through its emaciated chest. The fell creature jerks like a puppet gone mad in my weapon's cruel embrace, spraying its polluted blood onto my vambrace. With a forceful thrust, I shove the foul thing onto its back, my revving blade still lodged within its pallid torso. It bays, like some dumb grox denied its feed. I sneer as I bring a booted foot above its putrid countenance. If it is no longer human, then it is an enemy. I stomp down hard, crushing its skull into fragments beneath my servos enhanced strength. Blood and viscera splatter out from underneath my ceramite heel, and my sabatons further expresses the revulsion I feel by grinding down against the gory mess.

I tug my weapon free from the twitching corpse, the churning serrated teeth whining in disappointment as it leaves the ruptured flesh it has just so recently destroyed. I sate its desire for more butchery by hacking into the unprotected side of a haggard man-thing. At once its whine changes into a gurgling sputter of satisfaction, gorging itself on decayed meat and rotten gristle. The roiling spikes hew deeper and deeper into the zombie's shuddering body until there is nothing else for the sawed blades to cut. The monstrosity topples over, its arms flailing as its torso separates entirely from its waist.

"_Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"_

They surround me on all sides, these humans who have given themselves to the Emperor, surging forward to once more to slay the enemy. They continue to chant my title, their voices rising into an unstoppable crescendo. And they are not the only ones. The militia on both flanks, drive their opponents steadily back with their crude weapons, their mouths parting again and again to shout out a name that is not mine yet describes me fully. The Myrmidons in support cry out the same words as they hack and hew into undead filth, their worshipful tone mirrored to a lesser extent by the spearmen who back the left flank. The archers resting in the rear of the battle line, having no more role to play in this conflict, make their approval known the loudest, having seen my rush into the fray in all its entirety. Even the horsemen, now riding around the Scourge horde to strike from behind, repeat the mantra, their calls resonating above the rapid beating of hooves upon earth.

My Lyman's Ear filters out the racket. Their cheers have reached an unacceptable level. I do not need such annoyances when I have not yet finished the holy slaughter that is my duty.

I near the front, where the heat of the battle is most intense. My chainsword hisses in delight at the prospect of more enemies, spitting out caught chunks of flesh as it thrums impatiently in my blood drenched hand. Flecks of ichor patters onto my armor, courtesy of my overly eager weapon, and a grunt of distaste emits from my lips as a droplet lands on my newly obtained Rosarius. The bead of darkened fluid quivers on the golden figure and I whisper a prayer of forgiveness for allowing this act of desecration to befall an image of the Immortal Emperor. My gaze drops from the ensuing melee onto the angelic figurine that dangles from my neck. I feel the uncertainty that lingers in my mind slowly recede, driven back by fresh surges of confidence.

Strange, but the autosensors built into my helm has not detected any energy readings from the power field inducing amulet. Not when I first received it from the Arcanist, and certainly not now. It is entirely possible that after ten thousand years with no tech priests to soothe its angry spirit and no priests to pray for its protection, the relic no longer is able to function. A disappointment, but one that I cannot say I did not expect. A Rosarius is a symbol of faith in the Father of Mankind and only protects those whose conviction is boundless. Though my belief in Him on Terra is not to be questioned, it cannot compare with the likes of Reclusiarch Targon and his acolytes. Even if this holy artifact had not weathered long eons of dormancy, its ability to safeguard me from harm would still be in doubt.

However, the fact that this relic is inert does not bother me. The fact that a reminder of the Emperor's Glory is so close to me gladdens my hearts and reinforces my flagging faith.

A wretched figure stumbles into my sword reach, face a disheveled mess of hair and blotched skin. A woman, though the advanced state of decay that wreathes her form makes it almost impossible to tell. Her torn dress hangs limply from one gaunt shoulder, revealing a shriveled lump of flesh that droops hideously from the left side of her chest. Perhaps she was beautiful once to her fellow man. Perhaps she was not. It does not matter now as my chainsword promises to make her even uglier.

"Release meeee…"

My weapon halts in its descent, and I blink in shock, not willing to believe such a corrupted monster was capable of human speech. My hesitation allows it to stagger closer, and my visor automatically focuses on the miserable being's face. Blue eyes matching my own stare back at me, and I resist the urge to take a step back at the intense gaze of those dilated irises. This woman knows. She knows what she has become. She is not one of the mindless creatures that assail our ranks. Those eyes hold sanity within them.

"Killll meeee…"

She latches onto my leg, her frail body dwarfed by my own power armored bulk. With a sorrowful cry she opens her mouth, already stained red with the blood of the living, and bites down on my ceramite plate. Rotten teeth cannot penetrate the blessed protection of Astartes, and I watch with revolted fascination as she tries again and again to break through my armor. Frustrated in her efforts, the possessed woman claws at me with bony fingers, at the same time piercing me with that haunted stare. She does not want this, I realize. She does not want to feast on the flesh of humans. She does not want to feel the still warm ichor of the recently dead gush down her throat. But she cannot refuse the blasphemous hunger that traps her soul.

"Pleaseeee…"

Once more she begs. That is enough.

My free hand slowly wraps around the woman's skull. Gentle is my grip. Tender almost. As a child would stroke his beloved pet. Those azure eyes once more lock with my own, hidden behind vision slits of crimson. They plead with me. Beseech me for an end to her suffering. My lips part and my vocalizers hiss into action, ready to convey the words I speak within my helm to the outside world. But what can I say to this woman that can placate her anguish? What can I say to this pitiful creature that will ease her pain? What can an Angel of Death, whose sole purpose is war, do to comfort one so fallen from the Emperor's Light?

My vox-speakers still wait for my speech. I opt for a simple one.

"Be at peace," my voice grates, a discordant, metallic sound that is inhuman even to my own ears.

Her eyes close, but before they do, I catch a flicker of gratitude in those cerulean pupils. My wrist twists suddenly and her body abruptly ceases to struggle. I detach the woman's head cleanly from her shoulders and let it drop from my grasp. Her body sags to the floor, her arms still entwined with my leg.

I should feel pity for this woman. I should. Instead I only feel hatred.

_"Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"_

Curse these fools. Why do they continue to cheer? Why are they so jubilant to see me in battle? Their concept of angel differs from mine. Theirs is a shining, benevolent being on wings of feathered light, who shields the weak and the downtrodden. I am not that kind of angel. My armor does not shine. I am neither kind nor compassionate. My wings are mechanical thrusters of blazing fire. I detest the weak.

My chainblade snorts, laughs, shrieks. It too derides these humans for their fanciful thinking.

Four more strides and no more Crusaders surround me. I have left them behind, blocked from following me by the waves of moaning undead. These same undead now crowd me, clutching at my armor, grappling with my limbs, seeking to do what they can never accomplish. They crave salvation. I can give them that.

My vocalizers distort my tone as I chant the Catechism of Vengeance.

* * *

"By the Light… I have seen men scream as they fight. Shout. Even cry. But reciting poems? He is mad. Insane, this angel." Vachon growled as his rapier sank deep into Scourge flesh. His victim had already been gutted by the giant's keening sword, and had put next to no effort in resisting when the Scarlet captain loomed over it.

"Is that so friend?" Melrache smiled, displaying a perfect set of white teeth, "I say some madness is good. Faith cannot be taken too seriously all the time. Unless you're a Myrmidon."

The swarthy Crusader hacked down on the outstretched arm of an undead with his claymore, slicing the limb clean off in a geyser of blood. A return swing caved in the creature's gaunt face and smashed it face down in the dirt. A raspy moan issued from the zombie's ruined countenance, and it struggled in the foot churned soil, desperate to attack the living locked in combat with its kin. The butt end of Whitemane's staff dove into its weakened skull and ceased its hoarse mewling. The newly appointed Commissar jerked her impromptu weapon from the twitching corpse, shaking it to rid the flecks of brain matter and fragments of shattered bone.

Vachon wrenched his own blade from his now dead opponent, shaking his head as he did so. His gaze shot to the man in question, ten paces in front of the Crusader lines, standing tall and proud amidst the foe that surrounded him on all sides. A sweep of his tooth sawed sword felled half a dozen Scourge, spraying their blackened blood into the air. As the aberrations dropped, a space appeared between the angel and the next of the hungry dead. Before the gap could close, the giant had already taken a step forward, his strange yet deadly weapon already carving deep into the following rank of unholy things.

Darrik laughed as he saw his fellow officer's expression of begrudging respect.

"You always were the more handsome one, Edgar. But I'll be damned if a maiden would choose you between the both of us with that look on your face."

"Laugh all you want. But my point still stands. I do not think he is entirely right in the head. What man rhymes as he fights? The battlefield is no place for artisans."

"Then why not make it so, my friend? I myself would not mind slaying the enemy while listening to the priestesses in the abbey at Tyr's Hand."

"Really now? It is my belief that your attention would be focused more on the priestesses themselves rather than the contents of their work."

A ragged howl interrupted their conversation, and Vachon was forced to raise his shield to prevent the source of the yowls from overwhelming him. A stab to the creature's leg forced it to kneel, but did nothing to quell its desire for flesh. The subsequent stab, placed unerringly on the bridge of the monster's nose, did however. With a grunt of disgust, the Scarlet captain pushed the slumped over carcass from his sword with his kite-shaped aegis.

His friend had also dispatched one of the hated foe, dragging his two handed weapon from a sundered body with fierce relish. Melrache winked roguishly back as he pulled his blade free, a thin smile etched on his features.

"A gentleman studies well both the artist and her work. Without one there can be no other. Better to appreciate both."

Before Vachon could make his retort known, the red and white figure of Commissar Whitemane strode from behind the two captains, staff slick with fresh blood.

"Quiet. Both of you," she hissed, a wave of her hand silencing her subordinates, "Listen. The Iron Angel's hymn. It sounds familiar…"

Vachon raised a questioning eyebrow. He sincerely doubted that the former Inquisitor could pick out the exact words from the giant's chant. The roaring cheers of their cohorts were like a storm of human making, and they could only catch bits and pieces of the angel's mantra from the massed cacophony. Still, he strained an ear and listened, the habit of following orders long ingrained in his conscience.

_"Wrath! Thy anger dwells within my soul! I shalt dole thee out to those who are unworthy to stand before His Light!"_

The phrases bellowed out were accompanied by distorted static, both from the Iron Angel's sneering mouthpiece. The bombastic declaration was followed by an unearthly shriek, emitted from the giant's churning blade. A tattered line of undead toppled, their bodies betraying deep and gory lacerations.

_"Fury! Thy rage beats within my heart! I shalt burn the enemies of mankind in your undying flames!"_

A return sweep from the angel's horrifyingly effective weapon hacked into the Scourge drones that stumbled mindlessly over the corpses of their comrades to attack. The first zombie was cut apart at the waist, splashing thick ichor and shredded organs over its mindless cohorts. The metal clad warrior dragged his sputtering sword into the wretched frame of the walking cadaver next to the slain first, the screech of motors replaced instantly by a low gurgling wail as silver teeth feasted deep into the unlucky creature's side. A spurt of blood rent the air as the giant's blade, spitting and snarling like a beast possessed, exploded from the misshapen creature's other side. Before the two pieces of the unholy thing could flop to the floor, the jagged spikes were already busy tearing into their next victim.

_"Vengeance! Thy ire flows within my veins! I shalt destroy the heretic and xeno alike to do thee honor!"_

The colossus's broad legs pushed him forward, never back, into the horde of monstrosities. Clawed hands scrabbled against his gothic armor but did nothing to curtail his anger. Another swing from his sword sheared through a gaggle of decrepit undead and spilled their entrails onto the soil. His other fist did not rest as the screaming weapon tore and ripped into swaying frames, lashing out in blurs of movement that dazzled the Crusader captain's eyes. Even as Vachon watched, the angel's plated gauntlet hammered into the gaunt chest of a mutilated woman. The sickening crunch that resulted was heard despite the considerable distance between him and the source. The zombie was thrown back like a rag doll, limbs whipping about its body in a vain attempt to halt its unstoppable motion. It landed in a pack of its cohorts and the entire group went down, the momentum of the woman-thing easily overpowering what tenuous grip unsteady feet held on the earth.

He was impressed. He hated to admit it. But the combat prowess of this angel could not be denied.

"I do not recognize those words. Perhaps the Commissar would enlighten us?" Melrache half asked, half swore. His claymore was trapped in an emaciated man's sunken ribs, and he could not free it from the walking corpse in time. Already the Scourge had lurched within attack range, unmindful of the heavy blade that slid deeper and deeper into its tattered torso. Vachon moved hurriedly to his companion's aid, his slender sword reaching Darrik's assailant just in time. The rapier punched into the monster's left cheek and travelled through its unhinged jaws, slicing the horror's grayish tongue clean off. With a bellow of effort, the Scarlet commander wrenched his weapon free, destroying the lower half of the creature's face in the process.

"Yes… The War Chant of the Arathi Highlords…" if Whitemane realized the struggles of her two commanders, she certainly did not show it on her perplexed countenance, "my father was a knight during the Second War. He told me that Lord Lothar would intone a litany before each battle and ask that his followers join in. What little parts my father remembered he recited to me…"

"And you memorized his words?" Vachon snarled in disbelief, his attention still locked on the creature that remained thrashing on his friend's sword.

"My father came back from the war wounded beyond help. The priests say it was miracle he arrived home without perishing on the way. Those few days I had left with him were ones I will never forget," the Commissar's tone grew cold and stiff, and he knew instinctively that he had crossed some invisible line. Whitemane's stave clacked resoundingly against the forehead of the Scourge trapped on Darrik's blade, as though if making her displeasure known, shattering the man-thing's skull and driving splinters of bone into the vulnerable brain. With the threat now brutally ended, both captains freed their weapons and cast uncertain gazes towards one another.

"You are more handsome than me, yes. But your smooth-talking needs work. This is not the first time you have insulted a woman with your rashness," Melrache whispered.

He winced. That brought unpleasant memories abound.

_"I am the Emperor's Wrath made incarnate! My fists stain red with the blood of the foe! My steps crush their blasphemous dead!"_

The angel boomed, his voice akin to rolling thunder. A zombie hung limply in his enormous gauntlet, head downwards, its legs caught between iron fingers, lifeless as all dead things should be. The giant swung the corpse like a club, smashing aside a half a score of the enemy with one tremendous blow. His shrieking sword felled the same number of Scourge in one lethal sweep, and left ten more bodies upon the uneven floor.

"I am the strength of the Light made incarnate," both men turned as Whitemane murmured, "My fists are the protectors of the innocent and the dealers of judgment. My steps the enemy fears, for the bloodline of Arathor flows in my veins."

_"I am the Emperor's Fury given form! The xeno cannot stand against His wrathful anger! The heretic dies screaming in His vehement gaze!"_

"I am the Light's indomitable will given form," the Commissar mirrored the Iron Angel's words, her lips working quickly to form sentences not used since her youth, "The unjust cannot withstand the righteous, for that is what I am. Evil dies by my hand, for the Light's stern gaze never falters."

_"I am the Emperor's Vengeance on the fields of battle! The traitor needs not fear my presence, for I grant them redemption through death!"_

"I am the enemy's salvation on the fields of battle. My foes needs not fear my presence, for the Light grants them redemption before death."

"_Come to me, enemies of mankind! Come to me, xeno and heretic alike! Wrath! Fury! Vengeance! I shalt carve these words upon the bodies of your slain!"_

"Come to me, the evil and the unjust! Strength! Will! Compassion! These are the traits that will allow me to prevail and you to falter!" She finished, a wistful veil settling before her eyes.

Melrache buried his blade into a decayed monster's shoulder, speaking between thick gouts of arterial spray.

"Beautiful, yes. But what does it mean?"

"It means, captain, that you and I will join the angel in his litany when he decides to chant anew."

Vachon grimaced as his own blade released a tortured soul from its unholy thrall.

"We do not know the words, Commissar. You cannot expect us to join you when the gist of each phrase escapes our understanding."

Whitemane smiled. Almost motherly in nature. Almost if it weren't for the fierce and undeniable zeal that was etched upon her features.

"Then you will learn."

* * *

The charge was perfect. Textbook perfect. Flawless in performance. Highlord Fordring would have been proud.

Captain Elisa Pureblade gave an excited shout as Garith carried her in a full gallop into the disorganized rear of the Scourge mass. Her broadsword rose and fell in bloody arcs, hacking unmercifully onto heads unrecognizable from decay. The undead horde was single-minded in their purpose, and ignored this tiny pinprick that bothered their back stragglers, fully intent on the Iron Angel that remained undefeated in their midst. In the instant it took her steed to prance five steps she accounted for three of the foe, slaying them before they realized the threat that rode within their own ranks.

Then her horsemen hit en masse, their chargers gathered together in one powerful, cohesive body.

The slowest of the zombie host, creatures left behind due to movement crippling injuries, were instantly ridden down and trampled into a gory ruin beneath iron shod hooves. They had no time to register their imminent doom. One moment they were focused on their prey, their shambling gait slowly nearing them towards their goal. The next, they were slammed face down into the dirt with nothing to accompany them except the darkness that was death. The Reaper's Scythe claimed their souls before a single moan could escape their phlegm clogged throats.

With no warning that the Scarlet cavalry were seconds away from impacting, the main throng of Scourge creatures continued their miserable howls and vain attempts to drag down the giant that hacked and hewed a bloody path through their uneven lines. So engrossed were they in this task, that they did not even notice the very earth trembling under their feet from near four hundred pounding hooves. If the undead could make facial expressions then she would have loved to see the looks on their faces when her riders struck.

The vast horde of groaning dead hurtled closer, courtesy of Garith's increasing speed. She allowed herself to appreciate the magnificent sight before her. The crowd of monstrosities was like a sea of green tinged forms and outstretched arms from her vantage point on her horse's back. She saw the Iron Angel, a revving, sputtering sword splashing black blood in the air in one hand, a battered zombie being used as a club in the other. She saw the advancing ranks of her fellow Crusaders, a solid line of red and white figures that drove back the unrelenting tides of Scourge scum sword stroke by sword stroke. She saw the flanks held stoically by the militia elements of Captain Rhiana and Farmer Solliden, lagging slightly behind the more experienced swordsmen but still admirably keeping pace in felling the foe. And resembling the closing maw of a bull devilsaur, were the formations of the spearmen and Myrmidons, who swung from the left and right in a clumsy but effective flanking maneuver.

These infantry was the anvil. She and her followers was the hammer.

The whinnying, trilling wave of surging war mounts and their crimson clad masters crashed into the rear of the undead horde in a thunderous din of clashing steel and bellowed cries. Surprise was total. Scores of ragged frames were flung from their feet and into the backs of their wretched kin by inexorable momentum. Scores more fell with their skulls cloven in twain, sundered from descending sword arms. There was no resistance. The brain of a plague infested zombie is a simple thing. Once set upon its path to a potential meal, it would only deviate from its course when it discerns another source of food. With the attention of the foul creatures solely focused on the angel and their footslogging compatriots, the Scarlet riders were free to vent their rage with little fear of retaliation.

And that is exactly what they did.

Elisa swung her sword in a horizontal arc, catching a Scourge's head in her weapon's lethal range. A death rattle escaped the stricken thing's revolting mouth as her blade parted the top half of its cranium from its skull in a messy spray of blood and viscera. The unholy fiend staggered forward towards the human battle line for a few more steps before toppling behind the still oblivious masses of its kin. Her men copied her action, striking down at unresisting forms with flashing blades from their saddles. Putrefied monsters fell in droves, victims of the Crusaders' able blade work. But competent swordsmanship was not the only factor in a successful cavalry charge.

Garith snorted as his impressive bulk ploughed onwards through the decayed forms of men, women, and children who once were Lordaeron's loyal populace. The Scarlet war horse rammed into their frail bodies and smashed them to the earth where they were ground into ruins by his trampling hooves. His fellow chargers matched him in their wanton destruction. Entire packs of the dead disappeared beneath surging legs, delicate bones in emaciated frames snapping and shattering under the furious stampede. Many of those who fell under the tumultuous hooves did not die. A minion of the Lich King could suffer much before it found its blessed release. Arthas's grip upon his slaves was a strong one, and not so easily broken through mortal means. Still, a zombie whose limbs were flattened into uselessness posed no danger to her or her men. When the battle was won they could easily come back and deliver mercy strokes to free the damned from their torment.

"Well met Captain Pureblade," Elisa reined in her mount as the Iron Angel neared, his indomitable frame slick with the blood of the foe, "your assault was a grand one and worthy of commendation."

She shivered at the grating tone and wondered how a helm could make a man's voice so harsh and inhuman.

"Yes…" she hesitated, not knowing if she should be glad or dismayed at such praise from this war-forged being, "Thank you."

The infernal shrieking of the giant's sawed blade answered her, evil looking teeth churning deep into the last Scourge within his reach. She flinched as the man-thing convulsed madly under the sword's duress, throwing up thick sprays of black ichor and shredded flesh. With a mighty kick the angel sent the creature flying back from his weapon, rolling and tumbling to a halt before Garith's hooves. Her horse whinnied nervously, not because of the fresh corpse at its feet, but from the frightening smell of metal and blood that approached unswervingly.

The giant stopped at last, a meter away from mount and master, both with a trail of broken bodies behind them.

"That is a fine beast."

The words took her by surprise. She tried to hide the astonishment in her own timbre as she replied.

"Yes. Thank you," Elisa repeated, knowing full well how stupid she sounded.

"I too once rode on beasts of war. Mechanical creatures with noble machine spirits that served me well."

"Then we have some similarities," her riders continued their charging onslaught, unaware of the conversation that was ongoing between her and the angel, "was your horse a thoroughbred? Or a war stallion bred for knights?"

The giant laughed. Mirthless and devoid of humor. Yet from him, all so natural.

"Your knights would not have tamed one of the war bikes of the Adeptus Astartes. Without a black carapace to sync their minds to the soul of the machine, it is doubtful whether your knights could even start the ignition."

She did not know how to respond to that.

"I heard you lost warriors during your attack on Felstone Field, including your lieutenant. Their sacrifice will be remembered, for no man who dies in His service dies in vain."

There was something wrong about his tone that she found disconcerting. It was akin to a judge pronouncing a sentence on a criminal. And she was the criminal. Then realization struck her.

"You… you… expected me to perish in that place… didn't you?" her voice wavered, filled with disbelief and anger, "You expected me to die, and Hielan to live."

"Yes, I did," the quality of the angel's words were as brutal as they were honest, "Lieutenant Hielan was a better officer. He was more experienced by far and knew the difference between duty and faith. I expected you to lead your men on a futile charge into a vastly superior number of the enemy and die in doing so."

She wanted so desperately much to bring her broadsword crashing down upon this man's skull. She fought down that urge with difficulty. The angel's death would not bring her slain warriors back. That and she was not sure her weapon could even dent the cruel mask he wore.

"But I was wrong. You came back in one piece with the majority of your forces. Perhaps a revelation struck you as you battled the Scourge so distant from help. Perhaps you had an epiphany as you watched your men die. I do not know. All that matters now is that you came back."

She was thankful the cacophony of noises that surrounded her and the angel prevented her riders from hearing the wrath in her tone.

"You could have made your orders clearer. You could have told me fully what you expected of me. You could have prevented the deaths of my men."

"Maybe. But I am not your shepherd, and you are not my flock. I do not intend to command men who must constantly rely on my guidance. I need an army that is self-reliant and capable of waging war without my presence. My orders were clear enough. The way you interpret them is your own responsibility."

Both of her fists tightened, one clasping firm the leather leash attached to her steed's bridle, the other strengthening her hold on the grip of her sword.

"But you cannot send me into battle like that! I had no experience! No understanding of orders! You cannot just cast me into a tide of monstrosities and expect me to prevail! It is not right!"

"And yet now you do have experience. Now you do know the meaning of discipline. You have learned what is most important through the blood of your comrades. You have learned by watching them die. No tactician can teach you that. You are no longer a virgin to war. Baptized in the fires of battle and remade into an officer who can command her men without indecision. You are not Hielan. But perhaps in time you will become his better."

"Is it wrong that I hate you, angel?" she murmured, "Is it wrong that I hate you yet respect you for what you have done to me?"

"Hate me then, Pureblade. Hate me with all your heart. But do not respect me. Respect is worthless. Hatred is not. Hatred is the great equalizer amongst men. Hatred is the currency of the Imperium. Hate your enemies as much as you hate me, and there is no battle that exists in this universe that you cannot win."

A brief moment lulled in their exchange, but the background noise of shouting soldiers and groaning undead did little to add to the pregnant pause.

"So… What now?" her gloved hand gestured to the rapidly dwindling ocean of Scourge caught between the solid blocks of Scarlet infantry and her own mounted Crusaders, "This battle is won is it not? Those undead that are left will swiftly fall beneath our blades. Do we move onto Andorhal immediately?"

"No. This conflict has not yet finished. The puppetmaster still lives. We need to slay him to ensure our victory. That purpose I have left with the paladin and his Argent Dawn," the last two words the angel spat out in distaste, and Elisa was forced to agree with his revulsion. The idea of humans working with lesser races was a horrifying one to her.

"And you will check on them? Your compassion for nonhumans and traitors is duly noted."

The angel took a single step forward, crossing the distance between them the second it took her to blink. A curse found its way to her mouth and her body tensed in response to the sudden movement. Garith pawed the ground nervously, whinnying in fear at the immense frame that now stood not inches from his face.

"Anger still runs rampant in your mind. They have influenced what you say, and thus, I will not kill you for your audacity to suggest that I empathize with turncoats," the giant's crimson eye slits flashed as he spoke, and she felt the hidden rage behind the helm, "Understand me well, captain. For all your hatred you feel towards me now, your loathing is inconsequential compared to my own towards a traitor to mankind. My brothers and I have killed more traitors in your lifetime than you can count, and the Emperor willing, we will continue to do so for the millennia to come. No, I do not go to their aid as you think. I go to see if any of them have survived."

The black clad being marched away from her, toothed sword softly thrumming in a massive gauntlet.

She hesitated, unwilling to question him further. But she needed to know.

"My lord angel," Elisa called out, "What is the life of my men worth to you? What is the life of Lady Whitemane, Vachon and Melrache, and the others worth to you? What am I worth to you?"

The angel did not turn back as his metallic voice reached her ears.

"Nothing."

His answer sent a chill creeping along her spine. So brutally honest. She bit her lip to prevent them from parting and crying out insults at his retreating form.

And then abruptly he swiveled on his feet to meet her gaze. Thick arms spread wide. She could feel the smile beneath that leering black helm. The angel spoke once more.

"Everything."

She could detect no lie either in that tone.

* * *

_PipBoy: Thank you!_

_Leafy8765: The Larraman's Organ does not actually prevent bleeding. What it does is enhance the cells within the bloodstream so that once a wound does appear, they can quickly clot it within seconds. So an Astartes will bleed when they are injured, but only for a few seconds._

_Soulless Reader: It is entirely possible. Remembrancers are known to write entire works regarding the Great Crusade, the Space Marines, and of course the Emperor. However, psyker powers were not really recorded during this time period, as humanity did not really know much about their own psychic potential. The battle in Icecrown Citadel will not be as simple as "shoot Arthas in the face". Avarian has many challenges in front of him, and the Lich King is one of the greatest. _

_Norwest: You'll find out in this chapter. :P_

_JGKing: Thanks! You are free to use my work as the basis of your story. However I just ask you not to copy it word by word like one of the authors did a couple of months ago. (To his credit, he did delete it once he received complaints)_

_Salle1980: Battle scenes are what 40k novels focus on the most, so you'll find a greater proportion of it in this fic as well._

_Hand of Sand: The problem is that anyone can be corrupted by Chaos (except the Emperor and the Grey Knights). Hell, Horus, a noble and wise primarch before his fall, subsequently did fall to the Ruinous Powers. And if Chaos can corrupt primarchs, then they can certainly corrupt Varian._

_Emperor Chronicler: Steam armor might be able to match Astartes power armor. It might not. I believe that ceramite would be a tougher nut to crack than whatever material steam armor is constructed from. But, that is only my opinion. However, the thing with Warcraft power armor is that they are incredibly slow, as evidenced by the Goblin Shredders in WoW. That is a flaw that any Space Marine will utilize to his own advantage. Imperial armaments won't magically appear in the hands of the Scarlet Guard. The School of Necromancy is actually Scholomance, but yes, Scholomance and Stratholme will be future destinations to our hero._

_PaphaBear: Yes! Kneel before me and accept me as a god! :P If you take notice, the times when Astartes die in novels from bolter fire is because there is a mass amount of it. Standard bolter rounds by themselves cannot penetrate power armor, unless fired into the joints. They will however, blast big craters, though this will have a negligible effect on the Space Marine within. As for chain lightning, that will sadly not work. In the first Horus Heresy novel, a squad of Emperor's Children Marines (before they turned to Chaos) are on a planet called Murder, where lightning storms are a common occurrence. Several Astartes are actually hit by streaks of lightning. Their response? They laugh it off like it was nothing. In response to the Burning Legion's difficulty, they are woefully easier to defeat compared to 40k daemons. Much of Sargeras's armies are actually corrupted species he conquered from countless worlds, whereas the daemons of Warhammer are actually essences of the Warp itself. _

_Glennis: Thank you!_

_Arankor: The thing with weapon classifications in 40k, is that there are just too many to count. An autogun could be a variety of things. It could be a modern day assault rifle in the possession of a Hive ganger. Or it could be a power armor breaching death dealer in the hands of an Inquisitor. The only tie-in between these two weapons is that both shoot projectiles. Compare this to the myriad versions of the lasgun, which all shoot lasers but at different power levels. Or even the different types of boltguns. You'll see that a gauss rifle will fit well with the classification of an autogun. Also, it has been calculated that a gauss rifle has the same power of a .50 caliber machine gun, which would be lower or around a 40k heavy stubber in terms of penetrating power. And heavy stubbers do squat against Space Marines in the fluff. Three companies worth of Astartes will undoubtedly be outnumbered by their foes. But that's what Space Marines are made for. They constantly fight and win against enemies who outnumber them in the thousands. What are a bunch of convicts in imitation power suits to them when they've faced so much more danger in the universe? Of course, with a battle barge orbiting the planet, any notable concentrations of Terran marines will be vaporized by the ship's lance batteries. In space, if the Imperium warship was a smaller class like the Cobra Destroyer, then yes, the SC factions will have a chance to destroy it. However, a battle barge is not a mere destroyer. It is magnitudes more powerful with a lot more nasty weapons and far more void shields. It is doubtful that anything can dent it in the SC arsenal. This isn't the place to debate SC vs 40k though, and I would recommend Spacebattles or SDdestroyer dot net to see the general consensus regarding this subject._

_Yukilumi: Thanks! Not every faction seeks to use him. Only the Forsaken so far. And that is more because Sylvanas is a schemer type. As for the harem, well, only Keina has any form of affection towards Avarian so far. Vareesa just wants him for her own purposes. Malicia has been promised a bolt round for her troubles once Scholomance has been cleansed. The Dark Ranger is following her mistress's orders. And Whitemane sees him as a divine figure. No harem yet I'm afraid. :P_

_Blackmamuth: The Scarlet gryphon riders are all in Northrend, so none for the Scarlet Guard._

_Winged Knight: Thanks! Space Marines do value sacrifice, but it is doubtful they'll value it from something that isn't human._

_RogalDorn: You are very close with your thinking, my friend. But I won't disclose it all to you for the purposes of the plot. And yes, Avarian's litany was derived from Grimaldus's._

_Xynth: Since this is technically in the events of the Wrath timeline, Illidan is dead, and much of the Outland has been pacified. But it won't be for much longer! Lasguns will not miraculously appear in the hands of every Crusader. There will be some that will be found and equipped, but only a small number. And Sylvanas won't be falling to Nurgle any time soon._

_Grey Knight Stern: Actually, the chapter with the most common traits to humanity would be the Salamanders._

_Lunatic Pandora1: Catapults were historically not used for battle, but for sieges. The same goes for trebuchets._

_BloodRedSword: He will use his jump pack soon enough. Avarian is a tactical marine. But he wasn't always one. :P_

_Belton180: Cervix has two definitions. One means something pertaining to the neck. The other means what you are thinking of._

_Overdrive1: The pilot of a Dreadnought isn't dead per say. He's just been injured to the point of near death and then sustained by the sarcophagus._

_Pinto: Thanks!_

_Bogy shashav: Space Marines are not big on building barricades to keep out the foe. They tend to surge forward and attack until the enemy is destroyed._

_Lazylegionspark: Thanks!_

_NightHunterMGS: Maybe. In Brothers of the Snake, a woman is cured from radiation poisoning by Astartes blood. And a very accurate definition of the lasgun and why they are used!_

_Akira Stridder: It is entirely possible a Space Marine knows the components of basic Imperial weaponry._

_Boggieman: It is a possibility. I plan for a number of sequels, and the reason why will be apparent at the end of this story._

_Ranger24: Tirion will have his meeting with Avarian. And yes, Darion still possesses the Corrupted Ashbringer. _

_Legionary: Most likely! :P_

_Word Bearer: You are correct. A battle barge is akin in power to an Emperor class battle ship with a complement of Space Marines on board to boot._


	37. The Angel and His Traitors

**Author's Note: For all of you that ask, yes, that quote is from Kingdom of Heaven. How Avarian uses it in this context is up to the reader to decide. :P**

Chapter 36

Karduk Bloodfist snarled hatefully at the skeletal construct that loped slowly into his axe range. Clad in dirtied rags and wielding a rot-defiled pickaxe, the thing most likely had been some peasant in life whose work tools had been buried with him in some long forgotten grave. It, along with many others, was denied its eternal rest when the necromancers of the Scourge spread their foul magic across this realm. The Kor'kron looked deep into those hollow eye sockets and saw nothing but darkness. Soulless automatons these monstrosities created by Arthas. Wondering the lands without conscience and enslaved by dark masters. He had every right to hate them.

The orc took the swung blow with his shield, grunting as the skeleton's weapon connected with layered steel. The unholy being's strength was impressive. The necrotic energies that surged through its fleshless frame was the fuel for its mindless rage towards the living. But, for all that rage, its effectiveness was limited by the dullness of its mind. Instead of using the sharpened point of its pick, the undead had struck Karduk's aegis with the blunt end. Whereas the point could potentially pierce the thickness of his shield, especially when wielded with such unholy vigor, the blunt end could only jar his arm. A mistake that could only be attributed to the lack of intelligence within its cranium. He returned the strike, axe-head cleaving through the air. A spray of splintered bone chips followed as the aged warrior's own weapon drove deep into the cadaverous skull. The skeleton gave a death rattle through its skinless jaws and dropped to the ground, coming apart into a pile of its own gaunt body parts as the sorcery that prevented its frame from disintegrating vanished.

This was unsatisfying to him. Deeply so. He wanted sprays of blood to greet him when he killed, not minute fragments of bony material. Combat was made boring without the crimson liquid from the foe's body. The orc way of war celebrated bloodshed. Reveled in it. This was one of the reasons why they as a race had been so eager to offer themselves to the Burning Legion under the sway of Ner'zhul. This choice, willingly accepted at the time, earnestly approved by most, would be their downfall.

The Kor'kron growled spitefully as the memories of carnage and slaughter assailed his mind. All orcs who had participated in the consumption of Mannoroth's blood were subject to these momentary lapses of unwelcome remembrance. The varied elements of the Alliance were quick to cry out for vengeance against the Horde for their barbarity years past, but they did not realize that vengeance had already asserted itself. Visions of mindless butchery and dreams of bloody mayhem. Haunting reminders of crimes done at the command of demon overlords. Rightful punishments for their involvement in the Burning Legion's plans for domination. It is doubtful that any other race could have remained sane with such potent reminiscence assaulting their thoughts day in and day out.

Another of the Lich King's damnable servants lurched towards him. This one was a soldier in life. Clad in rusted garments of mail and plate, its unsteady gait was accompanied by the clink of metal on metal. In its tattered gloves was a broadsword, a favorite amongst the footmen of the Alliance in all three wars. It was entirely possible this former man had been killed by orcs and given burial once his body was sent home. The irony that he, former member of the Old Horde that waged slaughter upon the humans years ago, was now in the position to do so again upon this skeletal remnant was palpable.

Karduk laughed. A deep, resonating sound from within his black helm. The humans on both sides of him adorned in the garb of the dawning sun shot strange looks in his direction, and not without suspicion. He understood their misgivings. Even though the Argent Dawn accepted all races into its ranks, the undying odium that resulted from the two main factions on this world could not be downplayed. Just because human and orc alike was willing to unite against the Scourge did not mean old hatreds would fade.

Thrall had been optimistic about the Argent Dawn's future when news of its formation reached Ogrimmar. Both he and Varok had not. When and if the Lich King was defeated, what purpose would such an organization serve? When and if the Scourge was wiped off from the face of Azeroth, what would prevent both factions from leaping at each other's throats once more?

The answer was of course nothing. The warchief believed that there was always hope of peace between the Alliance and the Horde. Karduk respected him for that. Hope was what allowed their race to overcome the demonic taint that turned them into bloodthirsty beasts. Hope was what kept their kind alive when Thrall first freed them from the internment camps. But hope was not reality. And reality oftentimes was vastly different from what the warchief envisioned.

The remains of the human footman leered at him, its bare mandibles parting to form a rictus grin. Its emaciated frame staggered into his attack range, corroded sword held high in an arm stripped clean by decay. A laughable attempt to inflict harm. Whatever skills this soldier had in life, obviously did not follow his transition into undeath. Karduk reacted immediately. His axe swept horizontally towards the skeleton before its own weapon could descend. The keen edge made a mockery of the crumbling armor, driving through the rusted metal and cutting deep into the foul thing's ribcage. The skeletal warrior's teeth clattered together in a hideous imitation of his own laughter. With a bellow, the orc jerked his axe free from the Scourge minion's side with one limb, the other hurriedly raising his shield to withstand the retaliatory sword blow. The clash of steel that followed sorely tested his arm strength, and he found himself disgusted by his own weakness.

He was old. Fifty seasons and over. Not yet sixty. But close. His plated hair was white as snow. Wrinkles found their way onto his skin. His movements every year became less vigorous and as much as he hated to admit it, slower. If he were a human, then retirement would have been a valid option. But he was not. The blood of his ancestors flowed in his veins, forever calling him towards the path of war. He was an orc. And any decent orc's resting place was on the field of battle.

The next swing from his weapon was aimed at the automaton's neck. Axe-head connected with dirt-clogged vertebrae and sheared through it with ease. The decapitated skull bounced across the soil, teeth still chattering in unholy mirth.

Once more disappointment seeped into his mind. No blood spray again. What worth was in a battle fought when there was no blood to be spilled? He knew that Thrall would be most disappointed with his mindset should he discover them, but the warchief did not truly understand the warriors of the Old Horde that now served him. He, Varok, and many others who fell to the demonic taint were regretful for their actions, yes, and undoubtedly so. However, there was always that one niggling doubt that haunted their thoughts for repentance. That perhaps, that just maybe, they enjoyed the slaughter they inflicted under Mannoroth's influence.

A familiar rattle caused the Kor'kron to look down, just in time to see the pickaxe wielded by the supposedly dead peasant swing for his legs. With an oath that would have made a doomguard blush, Karduk stepped back to avoid the tool turned weapon. Too late was his action. He roared in anguish as the pointed end punctured through his leg plate and sank deep into his thigh. A spurt of crimson ichor emitted from his wound, and at once his bellow turned back into laughter, though this time in agony, as he recognized what quirk of fate had befallen him. Within his pain hazed mind, he attributed this wound to his own advanced years. Had he been younger then such a strike would have been easily evaded.

The skeleton hissed in victory, its body reforming rapidly before the orc's very eyes. Dark tendrils of energy lashed around the fleshless frame, repairing its damaged figure and instilling new life into the decrepit frame. Its torso and arms now functional, it crawled closer to him, intent on freeing its weapon. The unholy thing halted in its progress when his axe came crashing down upon its head, staving in the cranium and once more reducing it to a lifeless corpse.

A sudden hand gripped his shoulder and he tensed, an instinct driven behavior from many battles. The plated gauntlet that dragged him back into the circle was meant to help him. He resisted. No orc needed the assistance of a human. The hand was followed by a voice, and though reassuring, did nothing to quell his disgust at being aided.

"Again, greenskin? How many times is this?"

A grunt escaped from the confines of his helm as he landed on his rump

The inside of the circle meant respite for a short while, protected by a wall of Argent Dawn soldiers. Not that he needed protection. He was fine as is, despite the pick still lodged in his thigh. No measly injury could keep an orc down for long.

A human woman, young by his standards, perhaps barely above twenty-four in age, stood glancing down at him. Her hair was brown in color, and cropped short in military fashion, though not enough to vanquish her femininity. Her figure was hidden in bulky steel plate, gleaming with silver radiance. A simple buckler was strapped in one arm while the other clasped tight an iron war mace that shone dully with light. Another paladin. The healer kind. And blood sister to the one known as Gyran Truthseeker.

"Four," his reply was as curt as he could make it. He did not usually talk to humans. His hands were stained red with the blood of their kind. There was already ample enough hatred between their species. He did not need to increase this loathing with spoken words. Besides, killers do not converse with the descendents of their victims.

"Including this time?" this woman liked to ask questions. He didn't like to answer them.

"Five," he clenched his teeth in pain as he wrenched the rusted iron implement from a now numb thigh.

The female paladin kneeled alongside him, a plated hand glimmering with luminescence. Karduk heard the prayer being murmured by this human and recoiled inside. Being healed was not a new thing to him. But he was used to the shamans of the Horde who relied on the spirits of his ancestors in their work, not the priests and priestesses of the Alliance who utilized their devotion to the Light.

A familiar feeling of warmth spread across his wound and into the surrounding area of skin. The gory hole that was apparent through his ruined legplate disappeared in a veil of flaring brilliance. His eyes shut from the glaring flash, and he heard the woman snicker at his barefaced discomfort. How dare this human amuse herself over his agitation! He bit back an insult that had all too easily made his way to his tongue.

The warmth left his limb slowly and his eyes flicked open at the change. Where the wound once violated his leg, now there was nothing but creased green skin, unblemished and immaculate in texture. He snorted in satisfaction. At least this paladin was capable in her abilities.

Using his weapon as leverage, Karduk raised himself back on two solid feet, the lamellar plates that covered his body clinking together. The human woman planted two gauntleted fists on her hips and tilted her head in a gesture of sardonic outrage.

"No thanks again? Do your kind know no manners?"

The Kor'kron paused. True, this female and the two other healers that patrolled the middle were the only reasons why he and the rest of the Argent Dawn had not been overwhelmed yet. Five times his own blood had been spilled by enemy blades, and five times he had been pulled back into the circle where his gashes were mended by quick and efficient hands. He could not deny the contributions of these men and women of the Light and remain true to the tenets of honor and duty that was the New Horde.

"Thank you," Karduk nodded gruffly, his features twisted into a scowl behind his helm.

The paladin chuckled at the grumpiness apparent in his voice. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, a grim smile on her lips.

"Are all orcs this stubborn? Or only you?" the templar's question sounded almost cheerful in tone. As though if the whole spectacle that was raging before her was merely a game, and she, an onlooker.

His retort contained the same naivety but minus the optimism.

"Are all humans this foolish? Or only you?"

The smile never left the woman's face.

"Only me I suppose."

He disdained from replying. His body was freshly reinvigorated and the battle lust sang once more in his veins. War called him and he would answer. With a tight grip on his axe, the Kor'kron lumbered forward, intent on shouldering past the two Argent soldiers who had replaced him in the ring. The paladin's voice once more caused him to halt.

"You've been injured five times already, greenskin. Two, seriously. If it wasn't for the Light watching over you, you would long be dead. Wouldn't it be wise to sit awhile and rest before berserking forward again?"

"You are not of my race, human. You would not understand," he called back over his shoulder, "We orcs constantly lust for the drums of war to beat in our ears. And when they do beat, it is a glory we cannot decline. Under any circumstance."

He saw the woman's eyebrows rise in bemusement and grunted in derision. Thrall had often spoken of the need for both the Horde and the Alliance to understand one another. Karduk, as a famed veteran and a reminder of the Horde's past, was often asked to accompany the warchief as a show of solidarity from the older warriors. He had agreed each time, for he knew the importance of unity, especially now when the first generation of orcs had been born without the influence of Mannoroth. Yet, while he outwardly supported the son of Durotan, inwardly he knew there was no hope for understanding. There were too many differences between the members of both factions for any treatise of peace, too many obstacles that waylaid the road to friendship. Indeed, even here, on this barren patch of despoiled soil in the Plaguelands, surrounded by Arthas's undead servants, his own musings had been proved correct. This female human who had been so willing to heal him of his wounds still could not comprehend the basic necessity of his race for combat. If such simple comprehension was impossible, then how could the two factions ever seek common ground?

The paladin spoke again, much to his annoyance.

"Any circumstance? Well, the second time we dragged you into this circle, your arm was nearly separated from your shoulder. Would you still have fought without the use of a limb?"

"Amputation," he snorted, "a mere flesh wound."

The woman furrowed her brows together and achieved a look of perplexed amusement.

"Oh? Is that so? What if both your limbs had been amputated?"

The Kor'kron shook his head in irritation. The answer was obvious. How could this human not see that?

"I can still fight without the use of my arms, healer. My legs, while old, have enough strength in them left to deliver bone-shattering kicks."

"And if you were missing your arms and legs?"

"Then I have my teeth."

"You are seriously suggesting that after you have lost all four of your limbs, you are willing to crawl on your belly towards the foe and start biting them?" the locks of brown hair that dangled from the woman's head bounced as she laughed.

"Yes," he could find nothing funny in his declaration. He had been serious.

"Well, then. Blessings upon you, orc. May your enemies fear the tenacity of your jaws and the vigor behind them as they close on their hapless victims," the templar made room for an Argent soldier pulled from the ring, freshly hurt by skeletal hands.

Karduk squeezed the boar leather that was his weapon's grip reassuringly. Without further hesitation, he shoved his way back into his old position, ready for the next leering face that staggered into his axe reach. One last thought crossed his mind before the tumultuous din of battle fully overwhelmed his senses.

So strange, these humans.

* * *

Idiots. She was surrounded by idiots. And not the mild, buffoonish kind. She could at least remain tolerant in their presence. These were the insufferable, believe-they-were-superior-than-thou kind of idiots. They called themselves the Argent Dawn. She called them many assortments of words. Words that were best used in a place of liquor where drunks reigned or in the bedroom of two frolicking trolls.

She had not wanted to go on this mission. Not at all. Her place was much more secure with the Scarlet Crusaders. Sure, they hated her for her long delicate ears and almond shaped eyes. They loathed her for slim yet shapely figure. For her heart-shaped face and the alluring beauty it contained. And her long, silken hair tied into a bobbing ponytail. Yes, they hated her for all these things, and more. However, it was not her fault that whatever omnipotent being that ruled the universe had molded them into humans. They were merely jealous of the perfection one of the quel'dorei could reach. Still, she would rather be the object of derision from the crimson clad humans than be here on this misbegotten battlefield where every minute that passed was a chance some moldy skeleton would bury a rusty sword or axe into her delicate features. At least then she had a thousand bodies in front of her to take the brunt of the Scourge assault. Watching others die was much better than dying yourself, after all.

Vareesa ducked gracefully under the clumsy swing of a skeletal warrior, hissing with displeasure as the worn blade sliced a few strands of blonde hair from her ponytail. The blood elf riposted the hastily aimed blow, driving one of her keen daggers into the bony thing's jaw. The undead puppet clacked its teeth together as her weapon aided by what strength she could muster from her arm forced its mandible upwards. The sharpened point continued upwards in its motion, and emerged from the dome of the skinless skull. The Scourge went still immediately, dropping its corroded sword from its lifeless fingers with a clatter.

Her stiletto was not poisoned. Against the risen dead, venom was all but useless. Skeletons had no blood to carry her concoctions into vulnerable organs, or even organs for that matter. Zombies were immune to her carefully made toxins, for the Lich King's plague that circulated every vein in their decomposed bodies was far stronger than any she could create. So she was forced to use brute strength instead of her usual guile and trickery, and while there was much deception in her frame, the same could not be said for the vigor in her muscles. This was a fight where her most valuable traits were rendered null by the circumstances, and while usually she avoided these fights like she would a dead murloc left in the sun for days, this one she could not avoid without risking displeasure from the giant.

The rogue slid her dagger free from the skeleton's fleshless jowls and watched it disintegrate into a pile of motionless bones. Like that would do any good. She had probably killed this one at least four times. The cauldron lord was reconstructing each skeleton as fast as she and the Argent soldiers could slay them.

A decapitation strike, the god had told the paladin called Gyran. A decapitation strike. That was what they were supposed to do. A quick and efficient assault that would behead the opposing force's leadership and leave the lower ranks baffled and confused. Standard procedure when facing the Scourge. Instead, the Argent templar lead them straight into the massed packs of skeletons guarding their target. That was not what Avarian had ordered. And even then, the human could have redeemed himself for his stupidity by doing any number of things. Retreating, namely. Falling back. Withdrawing. Running away screaming at the top of your lungs. All of these were valid options, and ones she would support without hesitation.

But, it gets better. Not only did these Argent fools not retreat like any rational man would, they actually pushed forward into the mass of skeletons, harried along the way by spindly limbs clutching well-worn blades. And when they found themselves trapped within the pack of undead warriors, what did they do? They formed a circle. A circle. Even an intoxicated dwarf would have seen this tactic a mile away. Sure, the protection it afforded with each man shoulder to shoulder was decent, but such protection could only be temporary. Had it not occurred to the paladin that once the Scourge had them entrapped, there would be no escape? Had it not occurred to him that the cauldron lord would easily re-summon each and every one of his minions they killed? Had it not occurred to this man that soon their energy will diminish against their unrelenting foes?

Of course not. He was a paladin. Bellowing out prayers and charging blindly into the enemy was what they always did.

Her train of thoughts ended as a spiked mace hurtled towards her head. She leapt lithely back, and the bludgeoning instrument did nothing more than caress empty air. In one smooth movement, the blood elf dodged under her assailant's return swing and stepped into its nonexistent guard. So simple, these creatures. Always attack, with no consideration of defending themselves should their assault go awry. The skeleton let out a harsh rattle at the sudden intrusion into its private space, filling her dainty nostrils with the revolting smell of graveyard earth. She made her disgust known by ramming both her dirks into the thing's empty eye sockets. The gaunt frame went taut and then relaxed, coming apart as it fell into another heap of grimy body parts. The bone warrior's mace thudded to the ground beside the bits and pieces of its master.

She had no time to celebrate this small victory, for the remains of sword armed skeleton she had eliminated earlier was shuddering with dark tendrils of necromantic energies. No doubt she would have to kill it again when it shambled back up from the floor.

This battle was like an endless loop of violence. The process would repeat for an indefinite period of time, with the skeletons reassembling themselves again and again at their master's behest to attack the ring of idiots that she unfortunately was part of. For all their dullness and lack of intellect, the cauldron lord's minions were taking a toll on the occupants of the circle. Most of the Argent warriors had suffered grievous wounds from the remorseless tide and would have certainly perished if not for the three healers that dragged them back to mend their injuries behind the protection of their brethren. Luckily for her, these healers did not seem to have any qualms about aiding nonhumans, unlike their Crusader kin. Indeed, the orc, Karduk, had been pulled from the front on no less than five separate occasions, each time kicking and bellowing in spirited resistance.

There were only three out of the two dozen that remained free of injury from the raining blows of the skeletal creatures. Herself, the kaldorei amazon, and the former Scourge instructor.

The former was fighting stoically by her side, matching her kill count with the glowing blue blade that was originally meant for the giant. The night elf had long stored her ancient bow via a leather strap affixed to her shoulder, realizing the futility of using ranged weapons at such close quarters. As such, she was reduced to wielding a melee weapon that should have hampered her combat prowess. But it did not. Keina moved with the innate grace bequeathed to all elves, hacking, slicing, and cutting at the skeletal horrors that encircled them with frightening effectiveness. In the kaldorei's fighting form, Vareesa saw a fleeting resemblance to her own style of combat, a reliance on agility and dexterity over strength and muscle power. Of course, this was to be expected. The Highborne were once night elves themselves and their many practices of warfare became the standard for generations of quel'dorei to come.

Her emerald eyes locked remorselessly on the night elf's curved sword, watching it neatly part a Scourge's bony forearm from its elbow. It should have been hers. Like the giant's attention, the sword should belong to her. But, due to the fickle nature of fate, it and the god's interest had been taken from her by the sentinel. And that was what infuriated her the most. She was better than this wild woman, more civilized, and more attractive by far. Yet each time she was about to weave her web of seduction for Avarian to fall in, she was always foiled, not by Keina herself, but by unwelcome providence.

In the depths of Blackfathom Deeps, where her attempt to garner the god's favor with the very blade the kaldorei now wielded for herself. At Darnassus, where her scheme of seduction was unveiled by Keina and her meddlesome sentinels. In the bowels of the Undercity, where pure chance graced the night elf with a wound that the giant took notice in. And just recently, in the Scarlet bastion, where the sentinel captain's outburst had earned Avarian's grudging respect.

She easily could have outperformed the night elf in any one of those scenarios, if only fate had given her its blessing.

Yet, for all her wishes to the contrary, she could not undo what already had been done. Keina ranked higher than her in the eyes of the god. She could not deny the obvious. But… she could worm her way into the giant's heart via other means. Just because the kaldorei had scored these early victories did not mean the conflict between them had been decided. Yes, the amazon had won the first few battles, but the war was far from over.

"Abominations!" a voice from the other side of the ring drove her fantasies away in a heartbeat.

* * *

My laughter rings within the confines of my helm. It is a deep sound, and one I am not used to hearing. My vocalizers distort it. Perverse it. Makes it sound even less human. What comes out is a static laced snarl, akin to the thrum of some gigantic machine. It is strange. Hearing the laughter that escapes my lips combine with what my helm construes laughter should be. Two different interpretations of what I am. Strange. This noise.

I have laughed before. Mostly in the company of my brothers. Some times on the battlefield at a particular gruesome fate dealt out to the enemy by fellow Astartes hands. Dark humor. Black wit. This time is different. Different from the other times.

The servos in my power armor whines as it propels me forward, as though if protesting my actions. My chainsword delivers a similar sound, a shrill keening wail that begs me not to proceed with my plan. My boltgun, now gripped tight in black plated fist, seethes with displeasure at my actions. I can sense it. The venerable weapon decries this, orders me to haltimmediately. But I cannot. The crosshair that is implanted directly into my visor display flashes in warning, vanishing and reappearing with a whim of its own. The bolter will not allow me to aim properly. Its machine spirit condemns me for the act I am about to perform.

I go to the aid of traitors and xenos.

I laugh at the sheer ignominy of it all. The shame of consorting with alien breeds and their human sympathizers taints my soul. The shame is like a blazing bonfire, and I feel its scorching fury encompassing every inch of my body. My very being is in the throes of desecration, and I am helpless to stop it. Honor forces me to do this. Honor, and a promise. I laugh because I tread the path of eternal damnation. I laugh because I tread upon it willingly.

The circle of Argent humans and xenos are faltering. They are tired from the fighting against an enemy that knows not the meaning of human limitations. It is a miracle that they have held out for this long. The skeletal, walking corpses that press their attack outnumber them ten to one. If they were Guardsmen, loyal to the Emperor and steadfast to the Imperium, then they would have earned my respect long ago. But they are not. They are traitors and aliens. All they can earn from me is my scorn and undying loathing.

Now a new enemy approaches, three in number, their fat, obese bulks swaying as they lurch forward on stubby legs. My enhanced eyesight spots the pallid skin distended on their bloated frames, stitched together like a patchwork quilt. Diminutive heads sit on massive shoulders, the eyes that bulge from their sockets glimmering with bestial intelligence. Blasphemous barely describes these heretical abominations. But what catches my attention the most, what disgusts me the most, are the thick tails of intestines and innards that sprout from deep gashes in their corpulent bellies. My revulsion is like an ashen taste in my mouth, mingling with the pungent tang of hatred that has already taken hold of my tongue.

I placate my bolter's protesting spirit with a vow that soon a chance will come for it to vent out to its frustrations.

The paladin would not commit his paltry forces without my promise. A promise for aid should the opposition becomes too much for them. I cannot say I blame him. Even the bravest of mortals will not walk into the cold embrace of death without hesitation. I had agreed then. I regret my agreement now. Better to let these heathens die on the battlefield. At least then they can go to the Emperor with some honor to their credit.

But an oath is an oath. I promised Gyran. I will not fail him now, xenos-lover he may be.

I power my way into the skeletons, chainsword sweeping in long, brutal strokes. Their weathered skulls twist to peer at my advance, before my weapon demolishes their scrawny features in explosions of bone chips. There is no finesse to my blade work. I do not need it against these weak and fragile foes. I simply lash out again and again, felling these living cadavers with each vicious blow. My bolter hand mirrors the devastation wrought by my blade, descending on fleshless heads and obliterating them in sprays of splintered bone. I carve my way deeper into this unholy mass, seeking the three gargantuan forms that disgust me so.

I am still laughing, I realize. Even as I kill and kill and kill, my mirth remains unquenched. My brothers would think me mad if they see me in such a state. But perhaps I am mad. Insane, even. After all, in aiding these turncoats and their xeno cohorts, I already walk the path of a renegade. My laughter turns bitter at once. Renegade. Who would have thought a former Honored One of the Death Spectres would fall into such obscurity. What is next for me, then? Will I continue to justify my actions as they become more blasphemous in nature? Will my mind turn to sedition and treachery when it realizes that there is no turning back? Will I eventually bear the mark of the eight pointed star?

The sobering thought drives away the amusement from my conscience at once.

Dimly I hear the Argent soldiers cheering my advance. It is a sound easy for me to ignore.

The first of the overweight beasts looms before me, knocking its skeleton companions aside in its haste to do battle. My boltgun rises from its melee work, pieces of bone sticking to its revered frame. I aim for the thing's chest, a patch of blotched skin even wider than mine. I depress the trigger, and a series of thunderous roars belches from my weapon's barrel. Three head-sized craters erupt into the obese monster's torso, splattering chunks of shredded meat and visceral gore into the air. Unbelievably, it does not die, and instead, bellows out a guttural challenge. It seems to be unmindful of the thick streams of blood that now run in rivers down its misshapen body, or the three gaping holes freshly dealt to its upper frame. I raise my bolter higher, and my visor automatically corrects the targeting reticule embedded within my image display.

The corpulent creature takes another step towards me before my next bolt shell finds its face. The thing topples over, headless, and crushes half a dozen of its skeletal kin beneath its massive weight.

I shift my bolter in the direction of the next flabby beast. My chainblade hacks apart two milling skeletons that strayed too close and a violent kick from my boot smashes another's legs from its hip.

By the Throne, the abomination is fast! In the space it took me to down three of the spindly foe, the monster is almost within my sword's range. Its waddling gait has taken it far, and contrary to its almost comedic appearance, is quite fast. The beast is taller than me by several heads, and I have to look up to see its malformed features. My weapon discharges its lethal payload at point blank range; the mass-reactive projectiles detonating against the fiend's hide and driving it backwards. Before I can capitalize on its weakness, the fat monstrosity swipes at me with a meaty paw, and batters away the boltgun clenched in my hand. A distorted cry of anger escapes my helm's vocalizers as my fingers clutch at the empty air where my instrument of His wrath once rested.

My chainsword snarls with rage at the fate of its fellow weapon, and drives forward into the creature's extended belly. My war plate is immediately assailed by a mad welter of ichor and I push my blade deeper into the thing's revealed entails, seeking to shred its inner organs. If the beast notices the churning teeth that are sawing through its insides, it certainly does not show it. Instead, a throaty chuckle escapes its fleshy lips, as though if it were enjoying this experience. I try to pull my sword free, only to discover that it is ensnared within the Scourge's innards. A most devious trap.

The beast's gargantuan hands affix themselves firmly to my sides. I wince at the strength behind those brawny fingers, each as thick as an Ixillian python. Before I can do more than blink, the abomination lifts me from my feet and brings my struggling form near its mutilated countenance. No small feat, considering the total mass of my power armor and my own body. Its face is scarred horribly, displaying a mismatch of deep cuts and nasty furrows, akin to the toil of some mad apothecary. Iron bolts are stapled into its flesh, and it is with dismay that I realize they are for keeping the thing's skin from peeling off. Its fatty lips part into an almost childish grin and the eyes sunken in their sockets gleam with malicious glee.

"Well," I say into my helm's external vox, "you're an ugly frakker aren't you?"

Its response is as hideous as its face.

"LIDDLE MAN GO SQUISH!"

"Your command of the Gothic tongue astounds me." I reply dryly.

My retort is ignored. The monster bellows into my faceplate, splattering flecks of drool onto my sacred vestments. Immediately I feel the pressure in my ribs as the monstrosity attempts to crush me in its grip. I marvel at the creature's strength, more than enough to match my own. Still, despite its impressive might, it has committed one fatal flaw. In its eagerness to catch me within its grasp, it has not pinned my arms to my sides. Now one such arm draws back to punish this blasphemous creature for its brazen audacity.

The brute sees my pulled back arm and chortles. It has probably done this before. Snatching some unfortunate human into its huge paws and slowly squeezing them to death in its iron hold. It most likely enjoys the thrashing of its victims as they flail impotently, its hulking frame invulnerable to their feeble strikes and blows. The Scourge monstrosity thinks I am no different from the mortals it so loves to murder.

I make it realize its mistake.

I hammer my fist into the beast's still grinning face, relishing in the following crack of splintering bone. At once its leer vanishes, along with its right cheek, utterly demolished by my vengeful blow. A long, undulating howl erupts from its opened orifice, followed by an incoherent babble of words too bestial to understand.

"HURT! HURT!" is about all I can make out.

Once more my arm shoots out, but this time, my plated fingers latch onto the Scourge's unhinged mandible.

"Gothic is the language of the pure. It is the language of humanity," I state to its anguished visage, "one such as you does not deserve to speak its holy words. Let us rectify this problem."

My muscles, both real and artificial, strain as I pull. The abomination gurgles something incoherent, and I ignore it. I do not parley with scum. Ligaments tear, one by one, snapping apart like taut string. Skin stretches and rips, revealing the gray flesh beneath. Bone is dislodged from its rightful joints, coming away just like everything else. One final grunt of effort from me, and one final yowl from the monster, ends this. I display my prize to my captor, its own lower jaw, clutched in my bloody fist.

The abomination makes a wet, gurgling sound, the only sound it can make without a mandible. Its sickly green tongue flops uselessly down from its throat, devoid of the support that I now hold in my hand. One immense paw leaves my side, and swipes futilely at its ghastly wound, poking and prodding with infantile curiosity. Stupid brute. Even with blood leaking from its mangled jowls, it still does not comprehend fully how grievous its injury is. Its hesitation is all the time I need to make its wound even grislier.

My fingers wrap themselves around the grip of my combat knife and pulls it from it's sheathe. The blade glistens in my gauntlet, eager for its turn to shed the foe's life fluid. I reward its eagerness by ramming it into the Scourge's maimed maw. With both hands firmly behind my weapon's hilt, I shove it deeper and deeper into the monster's disfigured face, ignoring the thing's frantic attempts to resist. And then abruptly, I am let go, and my armored frame plummets to the ground. It is not a high drop, merely four feet, but it is a testament to just how tall my assailant is. The unholy thing jerks and shudders as it falls, my knife still protruding from its mouth, and I step back to avoid the beast's death throes.

The act nearly cost me my life.

I hear the whistling of metal cleaving air before I can fully register the threat. From the periphery of my vision, I see a crude blade arcing for my head, propelled by one monstrous arm. Not enough time to react. Not enough time to dodge.

My helm is ripped from my skull as the blow hits home, and I roar in pain as the mind-link between my faceplate and the black carapace is brutally severed. I stagger forward, away from the foul enemy that would dare strike me from behind. My conscience reels from the lost connection, my carapace literally bleeding agony into my brain. My opponent takes advantage of my lapse by smashing its weapon into my ceramite pauldron, forcing me to my knees. The haze of suffering that refuses to lift from my mind is crippling, and I find myself unable to do anything but snarl in pain. Helpless, would be the word to use in this situation.

I spit in disgust as a shadow looms over me. This is no way for an Astartes to die. To be slain in such a manner. There is no glory in being cut down from behind. My abhorrence for such a fate spears through the veil of agony and motivates me to defy my tormentor. I roll forward, ceramite plates creaking with protest, just in time to avoid the blow meant to detach my head from my shoulders. Using the momentum of my movement as a spring, I push myself back up, and swivel on my heel to face my attacker.

The last of the obese monsters greets my sight, fatty rolls of tissue quivering on its broad form as it approaches. I can smell its stinking, decayed scent wafting from every porous inch of its body. I can sense the killing rage that drives its animalistic intelligence. I can hear its heavy, strained breathing as it nears, like the sound of a man inhaling air with augmented lungs. It lifts a cleaver-like blade with one ham-fisted hand, pointing it at me in an obvious challenge. It thinks I have been weakened. It thinks I am defeated. It thinks I am weaponless.

It is wrong.

I have my hatred. I have my fists. They are enough.

Wind whips into my bared face as I surge forward to vanquish this monster.

Corax is watching this.


	38. The Damned and the Living

Chapter 37

They had come for her at last. They had come to claim what was theirs by right. They had come to claim her soul.

Her eyes darted from each robed figure to the next, pleading, begging, crying. But she found no mercy in the hooded forms that barred her way from escape. A wall of silent men and women hemmed her in, clad in black and purple, slowly advancing, never speaking. All she saw was the glimmer of their pupils, utterly without sanity. The Cult of the Damned. The only living minions of Arthas.

And behind these servants to the Lich King, was the necromancer. He stood taller than his acolytes, a horse's skull with spiraling horns hiding his features. A long, unkempt beard flowed down from his chin, the only part of his visage she could see. The spellcaster's garments were embroidered with sewn skulls, a fitting tribute to his evil profession. In one spindly hand, he held a blackened, gnarled staff, a colorless crystal rotating on its top. She felt the malicious gaze from that skull mask boring into her, stripping away whatever feeble defenses she had left, and threatening to drive away her own mind down the dark road of madness.

Her back met wooden wall, and she could retreat no further.

For years she had stayed in this dilapidated cabin, forgotten by all, and missed by none. She was dead. Technically. She had perished when the undead swept across Lordaeron like a locust swarm, devouring everything in their wake. Her town had been in the path of the destruction, but unlike her countrymen who fled in terror at the sight of the unholy creatures, she and her fellow townsfolk decided to resist. They had stone fortifications, freshly repaired for the coming storm. They had soldiers and villagers who would die rather than surrender their homes and families to the Lich King. They had paladins of the Silver Hand amongst the ranks of their defenders. They had the Light. How could they be defeated? And so they had stood proud and vigilant, an island of defiance in an ocean of the enemy.

Oh, how misguided and foolish their confidence was.

The wall of cultists parted to allow their master passage. The necromancer glides towards her, his staff, the implement of his foul magics, clacking methodically along the rotten oak floor. The sound of wood beating against wood, forever getting closer, was like a bell of ill omen tolling in her feverish thoughts. She shrank back further, her ethereal body unable to fade past the unseen barriers that caged her in this room.

She did not know where her body lay. Hopefully cremated into ash to prevent the Scourge from defiling it with their necromancy. But that was a forlorn hope. The last things she saw before darkness took her sight were her friends and family fleeing from the haggard, hunched frames that reeked of death and decay. If her loved ones hadn't died from the same assault that took her life, then they certainly weren't coming back and risking gruesome ends to immolate a corpse. Her spirit, freed from mortal trappings, had longed for sweet release. To escape the horrors the undead had inflicted. To forget the memories of blood, of war, and of butchery. But only the screams of the dying and the wails of living dead greeted her hopes.

The necromancer stretched out a gaunt, withered hand, and gently caressed her ghostly cheek. Claw-like fingers drifted into her phantasmal face, probing and violating her very essence. She cried out, in fear and in disgust, and scrabbled back further from the warlock's reach.

The Scourge spellcaster nods, as though if satisfied by some unknown criteria.

"Rest easy, my child. You will no longer be lonely in this desolate land," his tone was kindly, but she could detect the traces of malicious amusement in its roots.

He was right. She was lonely. Wandering without purpose in a kingdom of ghosts. Forced to hide from those who would enslave her to their lord's wicked will. Ignored by the few living beings that still patrolled these realms. Yes. She was lonely. But she was not so desperate for company as to consort with the very people who had caused her this suffering.

"Get away from me!" she cried out, a phantasmal arm held out to ward off the necromancer's advance, "Leave me alone!"

She heard the malevolent cackle of the cultists behind their master, filled with mocking derision at her declaration. The necromancer stills their laughter with a wave of his hand. His next words were tinged with false sorrow.

"Why do you shun me, ghost of Lordaeron? I am your friend. A fellow spirit who knows your pain. I have come to help you. I have come to alleviate your suffering."

"Away! Go away! You are no friend of mine!" mounting hysteria made her own voice sound shrill and terrified. But that did not shame her. She was terrified.

"I am afraid I cannot do that, my child," the spellcaster gestures eloquently towards her, "I simply cannot stand to see a poor, frightful creature like you in such a predicament. Let me help you in the only way I know how."

The cultist ranks parted once more, and two of their number dragged a limp, gray shape between them. Patches of sodden earth lingered on its battered frame, telling her whatever it was; it had been upturned from the outside soil. As the hooded acolytes neared, so did their prize. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized just what her tormentors pulled into the room. A corpse. The carcass of some long dead man or woman, she could not tell from the ravages of decay that shrouded the cadaver's body, was dropped by the necromancer's feet. The cultist pair bowed low to their master and retreated back into the menacing throng of their cohorts.

"No," she whispered as she realized what blasphemy was about to be committed here in her decrepit sanctuary.

"See. Fortune smiles upon you, wayward one," the necromancer continued in his unwelcome speech, ignoring the horrified expression on her spectral countenance, "Just as I have found you, my servants have found a burial ground overlooked and unknown by our patrols. Now, isn't this delightful? You can now enter this mortal shell and walk these realms with impunity! Let this husk become your new body and you shall be remade into the perfection that is undeath!"

"No!" she wailed once more, knowing that defiance was useless yet unwilling to accept such a fate without resistance. She had seen the work of the Scourge corpse-gatherers in her town, her own detached spirit concealed from the enemy's sight. Man, woman, children were piled in heaps, their remains haphazardly strewn in small mountains encircled by scores of purple robed acolytes. As they chanted and keened in their vile ritual, their necromancer lords intoned the words of the dead and raised high their hands. She had to stifle her own cry of horror at what happened next. Lances of necrotic energy speared from pale palms, rippling across the piles of the freshly dead and surging amongst the pile like chain lightning. The mountain moved. Each and every corpse shuddered and convulsed as the magic of reanimation poured without halt into their forms. She had thought that would be the worst the minions of Arthas could do. To defile the bodies of her friends and loved ones. She was wrong. Tendrils of black sorcery slithered forth and ensnared the spirits of those recently slain who had not the chance to escape. Screams only the dead could hear rent the air as struggling specters were heaved back into the circle of frenzied Scourge acolytes and disappeared into the massive pile of writhing, squirming cadavers.

She was lucky. The tendrils never found her. Busy with trapping others in their inescapable grasp, they paid no attention to the lone ghost that grew distant with each second. As she looked past her shoulder one last time, towards the town of her birth, towards the place where everyone she knew had lived, she saw the first of the mindless ones emerge, crawling from the mountain of corpses to heed their new commands. Zombies.

And now, her soul would be trapped in a rotting carcass just like those villagers years before.

"Of course, the process of implanting the soul back into the body is a painful one," the necromancer stabs the end of his staff into the rotten form prone on the aged floorboards, "I can only imagine the exquisite agony that will result. A gift of tremendous proportions I plan to bequeath to you, ghost of Lordaeron. Soon you will walk with your fellow undead, and your soul shall belong to the Eternal King!"

"Please… no… spare me, I beg you."

"_Weakling."_

She paused, not sure if she had heard right. She glanced up at the necromancer, thinking he had spoken. But he had not. The Scourge corpse-master had seemingly forgotten about the specter before him. Instead, his attention was entirely focused on the carcass splayed across the floor. Mumbled mutterings broke from the lips behind the animal skull, hideous words that no good man should know. The crystal atop the blackened stave emitted a spark of energy, the flicker dancing erratically across the smooth surface.

"Not this… anything but this…" her ethereal hands fumbled back, trying to find some means of flight. But the barrier that had held her in this run-down cabin for so long refused to grant her passage. When ghosts sought shelter, their spirits would meld with the place of their chosen rest, and link them forever to that place with no hope of escaping. This was the reason why no respite could ever grace them. Damned eternally to wander the land or chained eternally to it. She had not known this. And hence, her mistake had cost her dear.

"_Weakling," _the voice states again, filling her ears with its vengeful tone, _"Coward. Scum. Where is your courage, woman? Where is your will?"_

"What?" she murmured, desperately afraid. The necromancer does not notice, but his acolytes do. They leer at her behind their hooded cowls, waiting for their master to do his unholy deed.

"_A hated foe stands before you. He mocks you. He torments you. It was heathens like he who murdered your fellows. It was heretics like him who brings damnation upon your fellow man. Where is your defiance against him? Where is your hatred for him?"_

"What can I do? I am a ghost. Less than nothing," she sobs, "I hate him with all my heart, but what can I do? I am already dead."

A wave of laughter, cold and merciless, emits from the pack of cultists. They jeer at her cries, reveling in her naked fear. This time their lord does nothing to quell their amusement. This time, he joins it. The Scourge spellcaster leans on his stave, red irises behind his skull mask's sockets filled with cruel delight.

"You hate me, ghost?" the warlock hisses, all pretense of kindness gone in an instant, "You'll hate me much, much more when I am done violating your spirit. But that hate will only grow. As your soul festers in the imprisonment of decayed flesh, you will wonder why you alone have to suffer this fate. Your loathing will make you bitter of all life, and your feverish mind will no longer distinguish between whom to hate. You will hate everything and everyone. Then, the Hunger will fully manifest, and you will be eager to answer its call."

Before she could cry out at such a horrifying demise, a voice, different from the last, echoes into her panicked mind.

_"Beg more, vermin. Beg so the enemy can see your fear. Cling to their legs and weep for your own life. Mortal. Filth. You shame those who died protecting you. You shame all of humanity. You shame Him."_

"But what can I do? I have lost so much…" she hesitated, wincing as more laughter from the cultists answered her words, "I am weak… so weak… what can I can do against them besides grovel and weep?"

"She has gone insane!" hoots one of the Damned, "She has gone mad from just hearing our master speak!"

"No one will save you, woman," another giggles, "the Plaguelands belong to us. No one will venture out and deliver you from your fate."

_"That is untrue. We can save you,"_ a new voice only she could hear makes its presence felt, _"We have saved many before. He sends us across a thousand worlds to find those worthy to save. He sends across the universe to help those in need. He sends us, now, to this world. But, we have found no one to save, except you. We are not pleased with our find."_

"I do not blame you… I am pitiful," she ignores the continued sounds of glee from her tormentors, attention solely focused on what the voices say, "They have broken me without even lifting a finger…"

_"Even the weak are capable of feats of strength in times of peril, Marlene Redpath of Darrowshire."_

"How… How do you know?"

_"Many are the secrets of the dead. None can be spoken to the living."_

"But I am already dead…"

_"Wrong. Death is when your soul stands before the Eternity Gate to be judged. Your soul is still chained to this land. You are not dead, daughter of humanity. Yet you are not alive. A curious suspension wrought by heretic hands. We are displeased not because of your fear. We disdain those who cower with fright, yes. But we also know that fear is an integral of the human being. Without fear there can be no bravery. Without fear there can be no courage. Without fear there can be no sacrifice."_

"Then why the harsh words?"

_"Because we sense courage within you,"_ a fourth voice grunts, its tenor low with the quality of a man who is not used to speaking, _"But that courage is repressed. Subdued. Defeated. We are disgusted by this. To see a woman who should be strong, instead cower from her foes. From humanity's foes. Such a sight sickens us. So, we ask you again, daughter of mankind."_

_"Where is your courage?"_ barks the first voice.

_"Where is your will?"_ snarls the second voice.

_"Where is your defiance?"_ speaks the third voice.

_"Where is your hatred?"_ whispers the fourth voice.

"I… I…"

_"We offer you a chance to regain all that you have lost. We offer you a chance to undo what they have done to you. We offer you a chance for a new life. We offer you a chance to see the conclusion to your quest."_

Her quest. The image of a small girl, twin blonde ponytails bouncing as she played in the meadows, rushes into her mind. Pamela.

"_But first you must prove you are worthy of this chance. You must prove to us that you deserve this chance."_

The necromancer chants a blasphemous string of syllables and his staff's head writhes with blackish energies in response. He slowly lowers his stave; end first, until the crystal touches the corpse sprawled across the floor. Jolts of necrotic sorcery splits from the colorless gem, dancing erratically into the lifeless cadaver, forcing it to twitch and shudder on the ground. The Scourge spellcaster laughs. He laughs at this perversity. As though if desecrating the long dead remains of a person is something that is humorous.

"What must I do?" she asks softly.

_"Show us your courage."_

_"Show us your will."_

_"Show us your defiance."_

_"Show us your hatred."_

She springs forward, arm outstretched, fingers extended. Her enemy is unwary. The necromancer thinks he has already subdued his victim. He does not notice her movement until she is already upon him. Her digits clamp down on the sorcerer's slender wrist, ethereal fingertips pressing down hard over pale skin. The scream that followed was strangely pleasing to hear. Her foe stumbles back, screeching as the ice cold touch of the dead spread from her hand and into his flesh. She could not kill with this touch. But she could cause grave discomfort. Her grip becomes tighter. The Scourge spellcaster had wanted her to feel pain. Let him have the first dose.

And then her tormentor is wrenched from her vengeful hold. The cultists drag their lord back, hateful calls sounding from their mouths. She tries to follow, to continue her assault against him, but she cannot. She looks down, to see the lashes of dark magic holding her in place, rooting her into the floorboards where she cannot give vent to her anger. One of the necromancer's servants shout out dark words, immobilizing her in a web of angry, whipping energy.

"Release me fools!" her hated enemy cries out, "I will deal with this pest myself!"

They do as told. The warlock's skull mask is tilted in her direction as he approaches. She sees the red irises behind those sockets filled with rage. She smiles.

"Was that enough?" she asks.

_"It was."_

A shroud of bright orange fire materializes into being, separating her from her assailant. The heat is immense, and though her spectral body could not feel it, the Scourge arrayed before her certainly do. Many of them back away from the raging inferno that somehow has flared into existence in this dank room. Before she could so much as blink, a black plated gauntlet shoots from the cackling flames. Time seems to slow. It reaches out, armored fingers outstretched just like hers not a minute ago. Upon the vambrace she sees the polished white of bones adorning its dark surface, like some macabre decoration. The arm extends further, thick and seemingly without end. Not a human arm by any stretch of the imagination. The enormous hand clasps tight on one of the necromancer's skull horns. The spellcaster is lifted up, feet dangling from the ground, not three paces away from the hissing firestorm. The surprised cry of her foe is interrupted by a grim and resolute tone, reverberating within her mind and those of her tormentors. It is the voice of the third.

_**"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men."**_

A looming shape steps from the blazing conflagration, encased in a hulking suit of gothic armor. Across the gigantic frame's chest are curved pieces of bone, polished to a gleaming white, coming together to form a stylized ribcage. A snarling, grimacing helm sits upon its shoulders, crimson lenses for eye slits focused entirely on the struggling necromancer ensnared within its unrelenting grip. Pauldrons flanked the menacing faceplate, bedecked with images of fire and flame. A bulky, cumbersome-looking gun rests in its free fist, fat barrel blackened from well-use.

"_**Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children."**_

The same gun is rammed underneath the Scourge sorcerer's skull visage, muzzle kissing the necromancer's bearded chin.

"_**And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers".**_

Her assailant, now turned victim, fights in the massive being's grip. But it is a futile effort. Her savior's hold is inexorable and refuses to release its prey. The gateway of fire, still burning with furious vengeance, also refuses to abate. The spellcaster wails in terror as flickering embers leap upon his elaborate robes and catches them aflame. He manages one more scream before the cackling embers become a howling inferno and smothers out any further noise. Her rescuer does not relax his hold, despite his victim turning into a flailing, human torch. The fire that so eagerly consumes the necromancer, does not harm the giant.

"_**And you will know His name is the Lord when I lay His vengeance upon thee."**_

She hears the being of death and hell mind-speak. The gun thunders a second later, and through the conflagration, she sees the Scourge corpse-raiser's head and mask disappearing together in a spray of gore. The giant drops the lifeless corpse from his grasp, still wreathed in fire, to the ground.

A brief moment of silence elapses, penetrated only by the sounds of licking flames.

The back ranks of the Damned abruptly swivel on their heels and head towards the doorway in a running gait, tripping over themselves in their haste to flee. But before their frantic footsteps could bring them to safety, another shroud of fire manifests directly before them, blocking their avenue of escape. A vast shape steps from the firestorm, armor black as midnight, human bones and etchings of flame adorning its body. A heavy gun, too large to be wielded by one hand, with a cylindrical canister fused to its belly, rests upon the figure's back. It laughs, this figure, with the voice of the first.

"_**Where do you run little heretics?"**_ the second giant smashes its two colossal fists together,_** "Where do you seek your solace, scum? What place will hide you from the Emperor's Gaze?" **_

An acolyte, ahead of the pack, cannot halt his motion in time to avoid this new threat. The metal plated behemoth lashes out with one burly arm, the back of his hand connecting solidly with the hapless cultist's face. The man is flung from his feet, sailing over the heads of his comrades, to crash into the wall close to where she was still trapped. The lifeless form hits the floor with a dull thud. She averted her gaze, reluctant to stare at the battered corpse and its cratered face.

The remainder beats a hasty retreat. The giant laughs again at the sight of the cowering cultists, and strides menacingly in their direction. To her shock, the plumes of fire that surrounded the towering figure followed its movement. The flames seemed to have a life of their own, prancing and cavorting around the colossus's legs like children trailing after their mother. Two of the Damned, a man and a woman, were caught unawares by the swift advance of both giant and flame. The inferno washes over their astonished frames, devouring the flammable cloth they wore and reducing both to charred bones within seconds. No normal fire was this.

The gaggle of acolytes scramble back further in dismay, their eyes locked on the approaching avatar of death.

"_**Have you forgotten about me heathens?"**_

The first giant surges into the cultist pack from behind, roaring as he does so. Now, a cackling sword is in its gauntleted clasp, black blade spitting tendrils of deep red. Akin to molten magma, she thought. With one brutal swing, the being of fire and flame hacks through three of the foe, their bodies providing no resistance. The burning conflagration that follows claims more from the pack, felling them with its scorching touch. Those enveloped by the fiery blaze writhe and scream on the floorboards, scratching fingertips leaving furrows into the wood. Strangely, the fire does not burn the woodwork, only the cultists. She forces herself to peer more closely, trying but failing to ignore the thrashing figures that occasionally obstructed her view.

The flames do not leave a trail. They do not leave singes and sear marks on the ground like regular flames do.

They are like ghosts.

Assaulted from both the front and the back, the servants of Arthas scatter. Making no attempts to help those who have already fallen, they bolt for the room's sides, where no terrifying figures exist. It is a logical move made by logical minds. But it is the wrong move. Two more portals of blazing fire materialize, each blocking the path of the cultists. Two more giants emerge, massive frames bedecked with symbols of death and fire. One brings its broad-headed axe down on a petrified man, weapon sizzling with garlands of crimson energy. She expects the man to die and the axe to be lodged within his ruined frame. The man does die. But he does not die in the way she expected. The keen edge slices down vertically, through flesh, muscle, and bone with sickening ease. Nothing halts its motion. The axe head drives deep into the wooden ground, its work complete. The acolyte splits into two perfectly symmetric parts, a fountain of blood erupting from his bisected body.

The axe does not stay embedded in the floorboards for long. The behemoth wrenches it from its rest and sweeps it diagonally upwards. A cultist wails as the weapon scythes through her leg and into her waist, cleaving through her robed frame like a knife through hot butter. The giant does not pause to deliver a killing blow, paying no heed to the still screaming woman that lies sundered and ruined by his hand.

"_**Rejoice heretics! Rejoice in the death I give to you!" **_it mind-speaks with the voice of the second, _**"Gladden your hearts as the flames of absolution purge the sin from your bodies! Pray in thanks as my axe parts the vice from your souls!"**_

A carpet of fire pursues the hulking figure as it advances on the scattered remnants of her enemies. The wounded cultist attempts to drag herself away from the hissing flames, but to no avail. The blazing inferno swiftly overcomes the crawling woman and coats her with its vicious heat. The shrieks are heartrending to hear, and she turns away from the gruesome sight. Had she known just what horrors she would unleash on these Scourge, would she still have done so?

She did not know the answer to that.

The last of the giants does not shout or yell as it kills. Its helm is painted in the color of bleached bone, making its appearance resemble a leering, grinning skull. The bulky gun it holds with both hands booms and a man's entire torso disappears, reduced to a fine red mist. It strides forward like its brethren, its rumbling weapon disgorging shell after shell at those Damned who possessed the misfortune of avoiding their deaths. Lifeless bodies are hurled back, mutilated by bright explosions of flashing metal. The flames that dance around this one's legs rush forward and wrap the freshly slain in their blistering embrace.

The web of sorcery entwining her legs finally dissipates. The reason why is apparent enough. The acolyte who wove the spell stares back at her with empty eyes, his ruptured belly leaking blood onto the floor. She staggers back, somehow more terrified at her supposed saviors than the Scourge minions. She shut her eyes tightly, refusing to see more of the grisly slaughter. Her spectral hands close over her ears, desperate not to hear more screams of pain and agony.

"_**Afraid, human?"**_ she whimpered as one of the giants snarls, its tone laced with revulsion, _**"Open your eyes. This is justice. This is vengeance. Watch your foes suffer and die."**_

"This is not my way of justice," she murmurs. Her mind throbs with the aftereffects of the grating voice, "It is not my way of vengeance."

"_**No. It is not. But it is the Emperor's. It is His justice that we administer to those found wanting. It is His vengeance that we dole out to those who are guilty of sins."**_

"What gives you the right to say these things?" her eyes still remain firmly shut, "What gives you the right to judge who is guilty? Only the Light can do that."

"_**The Light and the Emperor,"**_ says the giant with no hatred in his timbre, _**"They are not mutually exclusive. One is the legacy of the other. The other is the master of the one."**_

"What do you mean by that?"

"_**We are what men pray to in their darkest time of need, Redpath. We are what men beg for when all hope is lost. We are Salvation."**_

"Salvation?" bitterness rang in her tone, overcoming her fear of these metal monstrosities, "Where was this salvation when my town burned? Where was this salvation when my family was slaughtered? There is no salvation. I do not believe in it."

"_**Salvation is real, daughter of humanity. In your case, it is merely late."**_

She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. A scene of carnage was displayed before her, a scene that belonged on the battlefield, not here. The corpses of the cultists were strewn across the room, the raging fires that followed each giant having left them as blackened skeletons. The vengeful beings had left none alive. Yet, for all the blazing fury of each inferno, the rot-strewn walls of her abode remained untouched. Ghost fire, she convinced herself.

"I suppose I should thank you," she says to the four figures that now stand motionless amid the entangled carcasses of the freshly slain.

"_**Thanks is not needed for duty,"**_ the master of the fourth voice whispers, the first words it has spoken since it appeared in a portal of fire.

"Then I thank you anyways."

Uncomfortable silence reigned. But that lasted only a minute. They had promised her a conclusion to her quest. They had promised her what so many others refused to do. To listen to the ramblings of a ghost and to search for a child long dead was not heroic. So she could not draw the attention of would-be heroes. She could provide little reward for her request. So she could not entice those who wished for treasure. Those few that did agree to her appeals did so out of pity. Even as they consented to her quest, she could see the lie in their eyes. She had not heard from them again.

"You say you will help me," she tried to hide the eagerness in her tone, "Will you honor your words?"

_**"We will."**_

"Then listen to my story-"

One of the giants raised a hand, palm facing her. A signal for her to stop. The optimism that had flowed so comfortingly into her ethereal form vanished. Would these beings refuse to acknowledge their promise? They would not be the first, or the last.

_**"We will honor our oaths to you. But it is not we who will end your quest."**_

"So then it was a lie all along? You would abandon me like the others and fill me with false hope? I would curse you had I not suffered through this so many times before."

_**"Woman,"**_ sneers the voice of the first; she could not distinguish which figure the tone belonged to as not one of them moved, _**"All hope is false. The universe is a harsh place. It knows not the emotions of the weak. It is better if for you to learn this truth than sit in this dark place for an eternity wishing for providence to grace you."**_

She remains silent. There is nothing left to say to these oath-breakers.

_**"It is not we who will end your quest," **_continues the only civil one of the four, _**"But there is someone who will. Someone who will give you what you seek."**_

"Who?" there was little else she could do besides ask.

_**"That, is something you must find yourself. The barrier that holds you here is broken, lost soul. It will no longer resist your attempts to leave. Seek salvation for yourself."**_

The flames unexpectedly waned. The legs of the giants faded along with the fire, ebbing away into nothingness. They were vanishing before her very eyes! She calls out, desperate to gain what few answers she could before the black clad figures disappeared entirely.

"Direction! What direction should I go?"

_**"There is a city near here. Once it was great. Now, it is in ruins. You should know of that place."**_

She knew.

"Andorhal. That place is called Andorhal."

Gone now were the hips, leaving only broad chests and arms along with helms. It looked like the giants were floating.

_**"There will be a man that looks like us in that place. His armor will resemble ours, his weapons even more so. He will be your salvation."**_

"But, that place is full of the Scourge…"

_**"Yes. But tomorrow, the city and its unholy inhabitants, will burn."**_

The torsos dissipated, fading away bit by bit.

"Even if I do meet up with him, how will I persuade him? I am a ghost. Undead. The living shy from my presence. Who is to say he won't?"

_**"He is like us. He is Astartes. He does not fear what mortals fear. But, we will not deny that he may be skeptical of your words. So tell him of us. Tell him of me."**_

The arms too disappear from view. Four helmeted heads, akin to skulls, stare back at her.

"And what is your name?"

_**"I was called Ullanxes in my past life. Now I am nameless just like the rest of my brothers."**_

"Ullanxes," the syllables are strange to her. It is a strange name.

_**"One last thing,"**_ the voice hesitates, and in that split-second, she detects a tinge of sorrow, _**"Tell him this… Tell him… that brotherhood is not lessened by death."**_

"I will."

This time, it is she who hesitates. She is unsure of her last question's validity. The helms, the last remnants of the giants, begin to fade. If she does not ask, she will never know. So she asks.

"Are you Angels of the Light?"

The last helm, baleful visors still locked onto her wraithlike frame, vanishes. She fears her question will go unanswered. She is partially right. The one called Ullanxes replies to her, but his statement only bring more questions.

_**"Close enough."**_

* * *

My rush forward is well-anticipated. The obese monster bellows an incoherent war cry, a snarling, bestial sound that fills my mind with disgust. The abomination does not know just how much it violates the Gothic language. It does not know that just by existing, it violates the holy form of humanity. It does not know that just by standing there, it insults what I strive to protect and safeguard. I feel bile rising in my throat. To say I am disgusted at this foe would be the understatement of the millennium.

The brute lashes out with its simple weapon, a jagged metal cleaver affixed to a handle of bone. My gait does not slow at this strike. I do not need to halt to throw myself sideways or duck frantically like humans often do. Astartes do not avoid the enemy or retreat from their presence. We advance. We advance and destroy them. The art of close combat dictated by Guilliman supports this concept. When a Marine is forced into hand-to-hand, we do not remain on the defensive. That is the duty of Guardsmen. Flailing about with a lasgun to deny the foe ground or thrusting inaccurately with a bayonet to drive his opponent back. That is not how the Angels of Death fight. We attack. We assault. We annihilate. It is a foolish opponent who thinks luring a Tactical or Devastator squad into a melee will win him the battle. Just as we can kill with the bolter, we can kill with our fists.

I tilt my head sideways and allow the rough blade to pass my skull. The air that is displaced wafts about my naked face, and I smile thinly at the sensation. It is good to see your enemy face to face without the confines of a helm. It is good to watch him die. My legs carry me past the fat creature's guard, where the distance is too near for him to bring his cleaver to bear.

I launch my fists into motion, hammering at the beast's corpulent bulk. My punches are merciless, puncturing the thing's pallid skin and driving deep into its grey flesh. It roars, not in pain, but in rage. It is frustrated that it cannot inflict violence upon me at such close range. It takes a step back, snarling spitefully. The monster hopes to widen the distance and bring either its crude weapon or meaty paw crashing down upon my head. I deny it that hope when I mirror its motion, stepping forward as it stumbles back, never relenting in my furious assault.

One of my clenched fists pull back from the Scourge's belly, dragging along with it a loop of the thing's distended intestines. The stink from the entails is almost unbearable and my face twists into a revolted grimace. I release the fleshy hose and punch again, sinking my ceramite fingers into its body in great spurts of blood. I glance up, expecting to see its eyes growing dull at the gruesome punishment I have doled out. Instead I see two orbs of ill yellow, blazing with hatred glaring down at me. The monster is not even close to death, I realize.

Yet the damage I have done should have killed a man ten times over. Across its corpulent frame are sunken holes, courtesy of my plated hands, all directed into what I assumed were vulnerable organs. In the space of three of my heartbeats, I have destroyed this brute's liver, ruptured its kidneys, and ripped apart its entails. But it has not succumbed to its wounds.

I have underestimated its durability.

I force myself away. The instinct to keep striking at this mass of flabby flesh is overpowering. I wish to destroy this mass of flabby flesh between my fists and grind its remains into dust beneath my heel. Its mere existence is an insult to humanity. The temptation to simply bring it down with blow after blow almost drags me back to my original position inside its reach. Almost. Discipline squashes the impulse as soon as it emerges.

The monstrosity's free arm follows my retreat, seeking to avenge the harm that I have inflicted. I sidestep the extending arm, as thick as my waist, and propel myself once more beneath the brute's guard. This time I swerve around the obese form, fighting back the instinct to punch, until I am at its backside. My motion was too quick for it to follow, making it grunt in confusion at the sudden disappearance of its foe. The grunt transforms into a howl of fury as the servos-enhanced strength in my legs propel me onto its broad back. Using my fingers as leverage, I climb higher until my own head is level with its.

I hear once more, the cheers of the Argent Dawn. And once more, I ignore it.

It strains to look at me, this abomination. Its wide neck is swiveled backwards, thick tendons bulging from its throat. Its maw unhinges, dripping with saliva. My fist connects with its face and it no longer stares at me. The blow snaps the malformed cranium away, forcing the ugly visage in the opposite direction. I use the temporary respite given to me wisely. My own arms lock together in an inexorable embrace, with the monster's neck in the middle. Surely without air, this creature will die.

My plated limbs exert undeniable force onto the brute's throat. It bellows in response, specks of drool flying from its jaws. I disregard it and constrict my arms further. A meaty paw grasps at me, trying to throw me off. Thankfully, the creature's burly appendage is too fat to fully articulate. The clutching fingers miss me by a considerable distance and I am free to continue my work.

The snapping of bone rewards my efforts. I relax my hold. I have crushed this thing's larynx. It can no longer make sound. More importantly, it can no longer breathe. I have killed it.

From the corner of my eyes, I see a blur spearing towards my face. It takes my enhanced eyes a millisecond to pierce the distorted image. A limb. An atrophied, withered limb, almost whip-like, with a hooked blade for a hand. It sprouts from the brute's back like some organic, fleshy servo arm. My gauntlet reaches out and grasps the mutated pinion before the wickedly-sharp tip can touch my skin. The vigor within this deceptively weak-looking arm is incredible, and it is only due to the strength improving qualities of my power armor that I can prevent this weapon appendage from plunging into my flesh.

The colossal sack of flesh below me heaves in exertion, and it is with alarm that I realize what is about to transpire. My footing on the monster's spine is compromised. While one arm is still wrapped about the Scourge's neck, the other is busy fending off the thing's third limb. The realization comes too late. I am flung from my perch as the ogre twists powerfully with its shoulder. Throne of Terra, is the thing still not dead?

A sickening crunch sounds below me as I land. Something has broken my fall. A skeletal hand juts from underneath my frame. That would explain it. I roll back, avoiding the raining blows of the skeleton's cohorts. The throw has placed me in the most unfortunate of circumstances. The beast has flung me into the ranks of its lesser, fleshless comrades.

Leering, eyeless faces greet me. I greet them back with my fists.

My hands strikes out in vicious ripostes, demolishing the emaciated forms that now crowd me. I lash out again and again, smashing apart their sickly bodies, obliterating them in explosions of splintered bone. Those few that escape my fury swing their rusted and pitted blades at me. I allow them to clang off my breastplate. Unlike the corpulent beast, these foes are of negligible threat.

As my fingers finish crushing the skinless skull of a skeleton, my eyes are focused on something else entirely. The paladin. The paladin and his companions have disengaged from their circle, and are actively fighting their way towards a thin figure draped in tattered cloth. I can only assume their target is the puppet master. Good. At least Gyran knows how to take advantage of the situation.

The sight of the Argent Dawn driving back the skeletons is all I get to see.

The abomination's cleaver sings for my neck. I throw myself back, shattering apart two of my unholy foes with my weight. It is enough to avoid being decapitated. It is not enough to avoid harm altogether.

The very tip of the blade slices across my forehead, and parts the flesh from my skull. My lips twist into a feral snarl of agony. But that is merely a hindrance. My black carapace shuts down the nerve receptors near the wound almost immediately, allowing for a dull numbness to settle where once fiery pain held its sway. It is the blood that leaks out that trouble me. Rich Astartes life fluid runs down my face, travelling down my cheeks like rivers. I am forced to shut my eyes tightly to avoid the ichor flowing into my pupils. The brute, while missing his mark, has blinded me.

I am not in danger of bleeding to death. Already my Larraman Organ is transporting special cells to the area of my gash, where upon contact with air, will form a skin substitute to prevent continued blood loss. Still, I have been robbed of my sight, and while it will not prove lethal in the long run, it certainly will prove to be detrimental in this fight.

My legs stumble back, disoriented by the sudden loss of a primary sense. I can no longer see my foe. But that is no obstacle. Not by itself. Enhanced sight does not make an Astartes. Guardsmen with scopes on their lasguns possess enhanced sight, yet their might is miniscule in comparison to a Space Marine. It is a combination of augmentations that makes us what we are. I can hear the wheezing pants coming from its destroyed throat. I can smell the scent of decay that wafts from its body. I can feel the vibrations under my feet as the beast stomps closer. I can taste the monster's sour sweat in the air.

So it has denied me one sense. I have four others to rely on.

The trembling stops. The Scourge is within range. My Lyman's Ear warns me of a faint whistling sound. The indication of an incoming strike. I twist my torso, and the blade misses me by a hair. The brute's gurgling becomes more frenzied. It is frustrated by this prey that just won't die. I am similarly frustrated by it.

I dodge two more of these swings before I feel a sudden change in the wind. The beast is attempting a vertical strike. The grimace on my lips twists into a grim smile.

I step back just in time, aided in timing by my remaining senses, and the tip of the cleaver instead of all of it comes crashing down upon my ceramite chest. The force of the blow is staggering, and it takes all my strength to avoid being brought to my knees. But the risk is a worthy one. The blade is halted by my thick armor. Even better, it is embedded in it. I marvel at the muscle power of this creature. To actually sink a sword in Astartes armor is not a feat to be ashamed of. I am impressed. This opponent is a worthy one. It is satisfying to fight it. It will be more satisfying when I kill it.

My right gauntlet closes over its own pudgy hand, locking the blade and preventing it from moving. My left gauntlet also closes, but unlike my right, it forms a fist. I swing my left arm viciously, and my armored knuckles connect solidly with the thing's extended elbow. I am saddened when my hearing picks up the ugly crunch of bone being broken. I am saddened because I cannot see for myself what damage I have wrought.

A wave of nostalgia passes over me. I have done this before.

The pressure that is applied to the blade trapped in my breastplate relents. The abomination is recoiling from my blow. As it should. The limb that once held the weapon can do nothing more than flop uselessly now. My hand moves down the length of the cleaver until I find its handle. With a grunt, I wrench the sword from my armor.

"Thank you for the weapon," I say in the direction of the monster.

Its response is a muted, gurgle of anger.

I flourish the blade before me, and though I cannot see what my new armament looks like, I can tell from its hefty weight that it will serve my purposes well enough. The beast's wheezing sounds reach a new volume. It is possessive of this blade, and I have taken the one thing it adores from it. This drives it into a towering rage. I hear the thudding footsteps as it lurches forward to attack again. I feel my enthusiasm at fighting a worthy foe dissipate. By giving in to its primal anger, the brute has guaranteed its own defeat. I am disappointed. I make my disappointment known through words.

"You dare tread upon this world, aberrant? You dare defile the Emperor's realm with your corruption?"

I sidestep the crushing blow that is meant to drive down on my head. The abomination's meaty hand slams into the ground, and from the tremble of earth I feel underneath my boots, I surmise the blow was a considerable one. But might is useless without discipline to guide it. My gauntlet, clutching the brute's cleaver, descends on the landed arm before it can be raised. A thick spray of blood splatters onto my war plate. The flesh is easily violated. The bone only slightly less so. My new weapon sinks into the dirt a second later.

The fat Scourge stumbles back, and I sense its gait becoming disorderly and erratic. As it should. I have hacked off one of its arms. I can only imagine the loss of balance it is suffering now.

"You dare defile our tongue?" I snarl, despite knowing that it can no longer, "You dare pollute our language?"

I advance as it retreats. I am soon within its guard once more. The blade in my hand tears a deep laceration in the Scourge's flabby leg, the keen edge slicing through the ligaments and muscle. The thumping of footsteps halt entirely. My stroke has torn through enough sinew to hamstring the beast. It sinks to one knee, the other bleeding profusely. I can smell the thing's stinking ichor.

"You dare exist in the Emperor's universe? You dare exist in humanity's domains?"

I hack at the brute's other leg, severing tendons and flesh in a spurt of blood. With nothing to support its enormous bulk, it drops to the soil in a useless heap. Its baleful gurgles continue, but that does not deter me from my duty.

"You dare give in to your anger?" my free hand wipes the blood from my face, "You dare deny me a challenge?"

My sight is restored. The abomination's ugly visage snarls back at me in my vision, its countenance a patchwork of flayed skin and re-sewn membrane. With its unwilling rest upon its maimed legs, its height has been considerably shortened. It is now slightly shorter than me. I raise the monster's blade over my head with both hands.

"You die by Astartes hands," the beast hisses at my declaration, spittle flying from its jowls, "There is no shame in that."

My words are meaningless to it. But that is to be expected. It is a beast. A thing. No intellect. No honor. My statements were meant for warriors. Men and women who could wield the blade with skill and fight with courage. My words would have soothed their injured pride before death. There is no ignominy in dying to a superior foe. I have wasted my breath speaking to this corpulent creature.

The jagged sword comes hurtling down on the monstrosity's misshapen head, propelled by my vengeful arms. The blade buries deep into the center of thing's domed skull, fragmenting apart the bone of the cranium, and sinking into the membranous folds of the brain. The brute jerks once, the entire mass of its body convulsing, before it stills, eyes finally empty in death. I leave the cleaver entrenched in the skull of its owner.

I step back, and my eyes scan the scene beyond the fat corpse. I am in luck. I manage to catch sight of the Argent Dawn paladin and his comrades in the midst of battle with the Scourge leader in charge of this unholy army. Gyran's two-handed warhammer drives back the last of the skeletal minions guarding their master, pulverizing any who were mindless enough to stray in the weapon's brutal path. I also see the ork fighting side by side with the paladin, turning aside stray blows with his shield and returning them with furious strength. So the two have reached a compromise. The satisfaction that comes from killing the abomination fades all too quickly, to be replaced by hate. Hatred for the xeno, and their human lackeys.

But, they have proved useful. And as much as my hatred for them burns, I will allow it to simmer below the surface. Honor is an unyielding thing. There is no way around it. Either you possess it or you don't. These aliens and traitors have done what I asked of them. I will keep my tongue in check to honor their contributions.

I look elsewhere, no longer interested in the Argent Dawn. If they cannot defeat a Scourge champion with superior numbers, then they are worthless to me. I look for my weapons ripped from my grasp, and most importantly, my helm, torn from my head. I do not have to look far.

My helmet's crimson visors meet my searching gaze. After a cursory glance, I am relieved. Besides a dent upon the forehead, it is unscathed. I will still be able to utilize it, though prayers will be needed to heal its injured machine spirit. Such is my relief, that I almost don't notice the woman that holds it. Almost.

"Hello," the human female says to me.

I reluctantly switch my attention from my faceplate to the speaker. A bulky figure bedecked in steel armor greets my gaze. A tabard hangs from her neck, a white sun upon a black background. Her face is not unattractive, and relatively pleasant to look at. The mortal's hair is cut short, dangling no further than her chin. Her features are inquisitive are she stares up at me, and to my mild chagrin, I detect no fear in that face.

"Hello," she says again, the edges of a smile tugging on her lips.

"Greetings," I grunt.

"That was some kill. I was one of those cheering for you," her tone is cheerful. It is a tone that does not belong on the battlefield.

I do not reply. I do not care whether she saw me kill the beast or not.

"We thought you were dead when the abomination grazed your head with its sword. But you fought on. That was very impressive."

I bite down on the insult that would have surely been unflattering. The woman tilts her head slightly as she realizes I am not going to speak.

"What's the matter, angel? Cat got your tongue?"

She blinks as I continue my stony silence. And then she grins.

"Are you one of those shy types, angel?"

Annoying brat, I think. But, I will humor her attempts at conversation.

"My helm," I growl.

"What?" she blinks again. Obviously this was not how she envisioned our exchange would go.

"My helm," I repeat, "You have my helm."

She looks down at the invaluable piece of war gear cradled in her arms. Then she looks back at me. Her smile has turned mischievous.

"So it is."

I wait for her to hand over my faceplate. She does not.

"Give it back," I am the one that breaks the silence.

"Say please."

I clench my fists tightly. The instinct to backhand this woman almost overwhelms me. I intone the Litany of Fortitude to cool my fast rising temper.

"I will not. My helm. Now."

"You are a rude one, aren't you?"

"What you call rude, I call expedient."

Her smile hasn't faded a bit. I find myself both hating and respecting this human. She is annoying, yes, but her bravery is exceptional. My voice is laced with impatience, yet she does not falter. She would make a fine Sororitas if she could curb her humor.

"You have beautiful eyes."

The words take me completely by surprise. She sees my expression and laughs, a soft sound that is pleasing to hear.

"It is true. Your eyes are blue like the ocean. They are like sapphires, but without the coldness."

I do not know how to respond to that.

"But they have lost their luster, somewhat," she peers at me, her own brown pupils gazing into mine, "They have hardened. Something has occurred in your past, angel, that steels your heart."

I am speechless.

The human female stretches out her plate clad arms and presents me with my helm. I take it from her, my mind still reeling from her words.

"It is heavier than I thought it would be," she gestures to what I now hold in my hands, "It must be tiring to wear that every time you go to battle."

"I manage," I finally drag my thoughts back together.

"I am called Eva by the way."

I do not care for her name.

"Eva Schintoff," she continues, evidently thinking I do care, "sister to that big idiot you rescued from the Scarlet Monastery."

It takes me a second to realize the implications.

"You are Gyran's sister."

"Yup," she smiles again, "younger to be exact."

"Interesting," I lie.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?"

I feel the impatience gnawing at me like an Occludus land shark. But, she is Argent Dawn. And I will not disparage them in tribute to their participation in this battle.

"Ask what?"

She rolls her eyes, as though if she was talking to a child.

"Ask why we don't have the same last names, of course!"

"Yes," I grit my teeth together, "How foolish of me. To miss such an obvious question."

She does not notice the sarcasm oozing from my voice.

"Well, my brother joined the Silver Hand before me. Rose through the ranks. Heroism and all that. Truthseeker was the title granted to him the day he became an initiate. It is a fine last name, no?"

"Yes."

"It was only after the Scourge swept through Lordaeron that I joined my brother. I could have been an initiate too, but they wouldn't accept me due to my preexisting conditions."

"I see."

"One of their conditions was that the recruit must remain chaste. I kind of failed that part."

She sees the horrified expression on my countenance and laughs.

"I'm not that kind of girl, angel. Otherwise I would be burning in front of you. I'm sure your kind doesn't look too kindly on those who let their lust become their masters."

She has no idea.

"I had a boyfriend when I was eighteen, and we kinda hit it off one night."

I shake my head. I am an Astartes. Forged by the Immortal Emperor to fight humanity's wars. Gene-son to Corax, the Prince of Ravens. Yet here I am, listening to a woman recite her history of reproduction. This would have been funny if it wasn't me in the picture.

"So here I am, still a Silver Hand neophyte, inducted into the Argent Dawn. Interesting, no?

"Yes. Very." If my sarcasm was a metal, the Mechanicus would be mining me.

"You are a handsome man, angel," her smile refuses to abate, "Tell me, how many women have you taken for lovers?"

Once more, I am left speechless. Thankfully, the pounding of hooves interrupt our conversation before I can formulate a reply. I turn to see Captain Elisa riding towards me, a dozen of her subordinates close behind. They rein in their horses, and stare at me with wide eyes. I realize what they are gawking at. There is still blood on my face.

"Angel," the Scarlet officer speaks, the venom in her tone momentarily gone and replaced with worry, "Commissar Whitemane sent me as soon as the last of the undead were slain. The zombies are being torched en masse even as we speak. She asks for orders… Are you all right?"

"He is fine," Eva cheerfully interjects beside me, "killed four abominations, he did. One with his bare hands. The blood on his face is the enemy's. He would be quite dead if the blood was his."

A murmur of appreciation sounds from the horsemen. I ignore it.

"Captain. You say you have drawn forces from two different places?" I am glad that I speak to someone else instead of the Argent woman.

"Yes. We drew all of the undead from the Writhing Haunt, and a good portion from Felstone Field."

"Then Felstone Field will be our next objective."


	39. A Falling Out of Sorts

Chapter 38

It twitches, this thing. It twitches pinned to the floor, my chainsword impaled through its chest. It will die like this. Like the unholy aberration it is. It will die, this so-called cauldron lord.

My blade purrs, freshly recovered from one of the fat beasts. Its monomolecular teeth shiver in ecstasy as fresh streams of blood cascade down its frame. It has forgiven me for my ineptitude in dealing with the abominations, where I was forced to leave it embedded within the rotting gut of a Scourge monster. I have earned its favor once more by giving it what it most needs. More enemies to sunder and rend. My bolter on the other hand, refuses to function. Greatly angered it was at being so recklessly torn from my grip. Its aged spirit demands my prayers to soothe the injury to its pride. This I will do when I have the time. Now, there are other things that warrant my attention.

Like the Scourge dying a second death on my sword.

My eyes, now freshly hidden beneath my faceplate, scan the undead champion that writhes helplessly on the ground. Like a brachiodant beetle upturned helplessly on its back. Its withered arms beat at the earth in an attempt to escape my weapon's hold, its decay ravaged visage hissing in impotent rage. Its sunken chest heaves up and down in a twisted parody of life, though I doubt it needs to breathe from my experience with the corpulent brutes. The creature's waist is fleshless, and it is with revulsion that I see the aged vertebrae that consists of its spine. Its skin is a sickly cyan in color, the membrane thick like scab tissue, rough and ugly in texture. Its hands are enlarged claws, leaving deep ruts in the soil as it continues to flail. From its slack-jawed orifice comes a guttural, undulating groan, a sound that no human could ever make.

These details are meaningless to me. This thing that I have fatally wounded is ugly and blasphemous, yes. But I have seen worse. What interest me are its green pupils, mutated into tiny orbs that sprout from sunken sockets.

I smile. I detect what the warriors clad in crimson beside me cannot.

"This is the cauldron lord?" I ask a question I already know, "This is one of their champions?"

Commissar Whitemane nods fervently, her curiously shaped headgear almost falling off in the process.

"Yes. A most foul enemy, my lord. It is called Bilemaw. At least, that is the name we have given it."

The creature deserves this unbecoming title. Its lower jaw is significantly longer than its upper, giving it a bestial, dumb appearance. Rotten teeth jut from its elongated mandible, more akin to tusks. Thick drools of saliva hang from its crusty lips, no doubt filled with all sorts of deadly contagion. A challenging opponent for a mortal human to best. A pitiful one for me to defeat.

"This was too easy a victory," I say, disappointed.

"As it should have been," the white-haired Commissar nods approvingly at me, a proud smile across her features. She does not notice my discontent, "You have defeated abominations my liege. With your bare hands, no less! This ghoul could not have bested you."

I grunt. The news has already spread. No doubt Captain Pureblade and her riders told their comrades what the Argent woman said when they returned to the main Scarlet contingent. The temptation to sigh is a strong one, but one that I resist nonetheless. It was not my wish for the Crusaders to know. But I will not condemn them for their eagerness to believe in rumors. They are not Space Marines. They are not like me. They require constant reminders of their purpose, and constant boosts to their morale, otherwise their spirits will flag, and their resolve will falter. Indeed, was not this the reason why we Astartes were made by the Emperor? To provide shining examples to humanity so that our lesser kin will have something to aspire to? To be exemplars of all mankind so that the rest of the human race will have something to place their faith in?

I will not criticize them for a trait that is distinctively… human.

"Do you see what I see, Lady Commissar?" I twist my revving blade, widening the hole in the Scourge's emaciated chest in spurts of black ichor, "Do you see what I see in this foe?"

She glances at me, her face an expression of puzzlement.

"My lord?"

"Look into its eyes, Whitemane. Tell me what you see," is my reply.

She squints at the thing still jerking on my blade, her mouth curled in disgust as she peers into the rheumy pupils.

"Hatred. I see hatred, great angel," she glances up at me, hoping her assumption is correct.

"You are not wrong. But you are not right either. Look again," I make a waving motion with my bolter hand, "All of you."

The ghoul howls in outrage as the Crusaders near me crowd around its form. It batters on the ground harder with its limbs, though it is a fruitless effort. I understand its sudden bout of desperation. To die surrounded by the foe is not shameful. But to die while you are helpless as they look down upon you is. It is a shame that I cannot imagine. I see it gleaming within the undead's tiny eyes. Why can't these humans see it?

"Anger," speaks Captain Vachon, his slender sword tip tapping on the thing's forehead, causing the beast to snap its jaws furiously, "I see an unholy anger. Almost animalistic in nature. Inhuman."

"That is true. But that is not what's most important."

"Then it is pain. It has to be," Houndmaster Loksey says gruffly, the shotgun blunderbuss I have designed resting on one mailed shoulder, "Your blow has dealt it great agony."

"It does feel pain. But it is a different pain from what you think."

"Well, it certainly doesn't feel joy," grins Melrache, his swarthy features alight with a grim smile, "I don't blame it. I wouldn't be happy either if your big sword was pinning me to the ground."

Faint laughter greets the Scarlet captain's joke. I do not laugh. I do not see what is so funny. I would not be happy either if a chainsword was lodged within my chest. To feel the jagged, shrieking teeth tear at your insides. It would not be a pleasant sensation. In the end, it is my silence that stills the sounds of mirth.

"No. It does not feel joy," I confirm what they already know.

"If this is some lesson, then it is ill-taught," grumbles Perrine. He does not look at the cauldron lord trapped on the ground. A scowl is tight upon his lips.

"Never is the teacher wrong when the student makes no effort to learn," my statement brings a flare of hostility on the officer's face. I ignore him. My gaze encompasses all the Guardsmen who are partaking in my impromptu lecture.

"Can none of you see what I see?" I twist my blade once more, causing a snarl to emit from my victim's unhinged maw, "Can none of you discern what plagues this creature?"

They shake their heads. They do not. A pity. A pity that I have to teach them what all Astartes will know on sight.

"Shame."

The Crusaders glance at each other, confusion readily apparent on their features.

"Shame?" questions Doan. He runs a hand through his orange beard in thought, "I am afraid I don't understand, lord angel."

"Yes. Shame. See how it struggles even this close to death?" my words elicits a howl from Bilemaw. Perhaps it can understand my words. If that is so, even better, "See how it thrashes on the ground despite the Reaper's Scythe so near to its neck? It is because the filth is ashamed."

"The undead cannot feel emotions-," begins Vachon. I interrupt him before he can finish.

"Perhaps. But this one can. Which leads me to believe that others of its kind can as well. It is mortified to be in such a helpless state, with us watching it, condemning it to an ignominious end. It is humiliated at being defeated so quickly, and wishes us away so it can die in peace. It is ashamed to have failed its masters, and beseeches for a quick end, so that it may forget its disgrace. Shame. Through shame it feels hatred. Through shame it feels anger. Through shame it feels pain. But above all else… through shame it feels fear."

"And you know this?" snorts Perrine, "Just by looking an enemy in the eye? Forgive me, but I am not convinced."

A simmer of annoyance floats through me. I allow the feeling to pass. I am a son of Corax. Patience is one of the virtues of the Raven, and one I am well versed in. This is the only reason why my gauntlets are not dripping with Perrine's blood.

"I have fought many a battle, Captain. I know what the enemy thinks."

"Perrine is always a skeptic, angel," Melrache's face never lost its smile, "You must forgive him for that."

"Skeptics have no place in an army devoted to the Emperor. A small mind is easily filled with faith," I quote from one of the many sayings of the Imperium.

"Then we will all have small minds, eh?" the dark complexioned officer grins in reply.

I do not answer. Instead, I pull my chainsword from the ghoul's torso, the blade's slowly churning spikes spitting out caught chunks of flesh. Freed from being pinned, the Scourge attempts to rise, its gaunt arms pushing and straining at the earth. My boot smashes into its chest, and drives it back down.

"Allow me, lord," speaks the Commissar, "its presence must surely offend you. Allow me to put an end to this beast."

She raises her staff, a deadly weapon in its own right. I have seen her wield the stave with lethal efficiency, shattering many an undead skull with commendable finesse and grace. She truly deserves the title of the Imperial Guard's most feared and renowned political officers. She does not know it yet, but my disposition towards her has vastly improved.

"That will not be necessary," my statement halts her motion, "it does not deserve a quick death."

I hack down at the undead's limbs, severing each in sprays of black ichor. The creature immediately howls, its timbre growing more desperate with each successive amputation. I see some of the Crusaders wince at this necessary cruelty. By the time I am done with them, they will join me in such acts of brutality. For cruelty to the enemy is no cruelty at all. It is mercy. My fourth stroke parts its last leg from its hip, leaving it wriggling helplessly on the ground like the worm it is.

"Let it die like this," I say, "Let it die in its shame."

I do not look back at the pitiful thing as I stride towards the steps of the pedestal the Scourge champion was guarding. A large cauldron is placed at the top of the platform, black as my armor and wider than a man's arm length by at least three magnitudes. A circular lid with a tube sprouting skywards hides whatever contents the vessel contains, though the occasional puff of greenish smog that shoots from the pipe makes my guess that much easier. Thick chains of rusted metal prevents the cauldron from falling, each descending from the rim to the floor, where they are bolted into the soil. Said chains rattle as my boots pound themselves up the crude stairway.

The vantage point provided by the platform is decent. I can see the entire terrain that consists of Felstone Field. A sizeable area is what my sight tells me, with deep grooves in the earth where the seeds of crop-life were once planted. Akin to the vast fields of an agri-world. This place would have looked neat and organized had it remained in the hands of the living, bustling with the fervent activity of feeding humanity. Now, weeds and other undesirable plant life germinate in the spaces that should have held crops. A row of wooden structures lies further from the fields, but to call them structures is a grave misnomer. They are more akin to piles of lumber than buildings, so horribly has decay ravaged them. The passing of time has not been kind to these constructs.

These sights would interest an agri-farmer or perhaps an architect. But not to me. Astartes such as I only partake in these scenes because they are there. Had the landscape that surrounds me been the vestigial bowels of a long dead Tyranid hive ship, then I would have been no less indifferent. The Angels of Death care only for the foes we fight, not the dwellings they live in.

From the dais, I can see figures riding on horseback, their white and red livery linking them with Captain Pureblade's command. They strike down the last of the mindless undead who still linger on the edges of the untended meadows, hacking them down with merciless sword arms. The field already is stained with the corpses of Scourge dead, carcasses of what remnants were left in this accursed place that was not drawn by the cavalry diversion. The ranks of Crusaders, fresh from their victory and aided by the impetus of their high morale, easily overwhelmed the resistance here. The Myrmidons proved especially effective. They ploughed through the undead packs, striking left and right with their weapons with unequaled fervor. They would make good assault troops if their zeal did not blind them.

Now, these same soldiers tread through the forests of weeds, stabbing and hacking at Scourge bodies to ensure their death. Following them are figures without armor or armaments. Peasants. Of Solliden's brood. They follow the Scarlet Guardsmen in groups, shifting through the unholy carcasses at their warrior brethren's behest. Cloth scarves cover their mouths and nostrils, preventing the stench of rot from abusing their senses. It is a peculiar habit, and one that the Crusaders do not mirror. No doubt many years of fighting these blasphemous creatures have hardened them from such nonsensical weaknesses as scent. As I watch, the noncombatants carry the decayed remains in twos, piling them in heaps all over the field. When a heap reaches a certain height, it is swiftly burned with liberal applications from a torch. A rather primitive method of sanitization, but an effective one I will admit.

It is with faint interest that I see the civilians held as prisoners in the Scarlet dungeons working amongst Solliden's charges. It would seem that they have been taken in by the Crusader families. That is good. I did not know what to do with them anyways.

My presence atop this pedestal does not go unnoticed. Excited murmurings break out among the crimson clad soldiers, many halting from their work of combing through the dead to look excitedly at me. I curse myself for my lack of foresight. They must think I will do something to inspire them, what with my ascendance onto this platform and my imposing form. They are wrong. I intend simply to gaze at my surroundings and rid this plague cauldron that sits hideously before me.

My chainsword descends on each antiquated chain, hewing them apart much like Bilemaw's limbs. The cauldron groans as the support that keeps its massive iron bulk from collapsing the dais are severed in angry metallic sparks. My boot drives into the ugly container, just as it did to the ghoul when it attempted to rise. The force from my kick shatters the crude iron shell into a hundred pieces. The gush of revolting fluid that follows splashes against my armor and all over this platform. It does not take long for the discolored liquid to spread to the edges and begin dripping droplets of the diseased stuff onto the soil.

The cheers that follow are unpleasantly surprising, as is the unwelcome attention my act garners.

_"Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel! Angel!"_

All around the pedestal, Guardsmen lift high their weapons, be the blades, spears, or maces, to salute me. Some bash their swords against their shields, raising a rhythmic beat with clashing metal. Others just cry out the name they gave me again and again like a mantra. And they are not the only ones. My Lyman's Ear catches the shouted acclaim of the peasants as well, softer in volume but no less passionate. Behind my faceplate, my features crease into a frown. I find myself disgusted at this show of emotion. Not because it is wrong, but because it is ill-deserved. We have slain two thousand of the undead. Two thousand. It is a pitiful kill count. I have seen conflicts where a preliminary barrage of artillery slew ten times this number of the foe. Yet, despite this pathetic showing, these mortals still cheer. They have no reason to cheer. They have nothing to cheer about.

"Speech!" some idiot amidst the Crusader ranks yells out.

His shout is quickly taken up by the rest.

_"Speech! Speech! Speech!"_ a thousand voices roar as one.

I could refuse. I could deny them this foolish request. I could even criticize their desire for praise. I could do all of these things. I want to do all of these things. But I do not. As much as I despise these humans for their lack of restraint, I also understand them. They _need_ this. They want to be recognized for their deeds, paltry and few as they were. They want me to acknowledge their exceptional bravery and valor in battle, though fighting the enemies of the humanity is a common occurrence in the Imperium. I cannot say I blame them. Even Space Marines seek glory and recognition. However, we know the importance of duty before glory, and will put aside the latter to achieve the former. Those of us who do not, are christened as renegades, and are released from service and shunned by our former battle-brothers.

It is a strange thought, but was it not for the Emperor to smile upon me; perhaps I would be amid this crowd of Guardsmen, cheering at an angel and desperate to hear his words. How gravely I would be disappointed should the angel not speak but instead walk away.

It is the primal nature of human beings to venerate their betters. In this case, I am that better. I will not spit upon their hopes for praise.

"Greetings heroes," I hear myself say. I hear myself lie, "You have done well this day. All of you. Together we accomplished a great and noble deed. We have vanquished an army. Two thousand of the foe we have lain low. A worthy number. The Emperor is proud of us on this day."

The voice that comes from my vocalizers is carefully neutral, but the face behind my helm is decidedly not. Saying words of praise to those who do not deserve it is a new experience for me. I cannot say I enjoy it. The Emperor would never be proud of our dismal efforts against so few of the enemy. The revulsion I feel is like a Tyranid bio-creature clawing at me from the inside. It is almost painful. But not enough for me to stop. I will continue this charade for these humans and their morale.

"Against great odds did we succeed," two-to-one is not great odds, I think to myself. Hive-rabble conscripts have fought larger numbers than that and prevailed, "Against a relentless and horrifying enemy did we triumph. Be proud, Guardsmen. Be proud for what you did this day and what you will continue to do in His name."

The Crusaders cheer at this, louder than before and louder than I thought possible. Apparently they did not detect the repugnance in my tone. But that is to be expected. I have hidden my disgust well. My plated arm sweeps up as I point my chainsword at the cackling flames that have consumed the piles of undead.

"These fires that burn bright are the fires that dwell in your souls, warriors of the Emperor. See how they feed on the corpses of the evil and blasphemous? They mirror your own souls' hunger for justice. May the righteous fury that dwells inside each and every one of you burn brighter than the stars. May they last you for this lifetime and the next."

Again the crowd of the Guardsmen and civilians erupt into a thunderous ovation. And for what? For their own glorified roles in a skirmish not fit to be mentioned in even the smallest of Imperial annals? The thought that they actually believe they are worthy of my praise is a laughable one. But then again, they are humans. Mortals. They are easily deceived. The countless cults that spring up across the Emperor's domains that worship the foul deities of Chaos are a testament to this foolishness.

Humans. Sometimes I am disgusted by their weakness. Other times I bow my head in respect to their strength. The hypocrisy is palpable.

"You deserve this victory. This triumph," I lie again, "Let it be known today that the righteous prevailed over the unjust. The good triumphed over the evil. Let it be known today and for the rest of your days that humanity conquered its foes and will continue to do so until the last breath of life escapes this universe! "

The last part is true. I cannot tell if the men and women that surrounds the platform can discern this from the falsehoods I have woven. Most likely not, considering their cheers continue on in the same blind fashion. The faithful are easily deluded. Easily tricked. However, for all their simplicity, they will hold on to their faith with an iron grip. The Ecclesiarchy could not have asked for better worshippers. It is a shame then, that I am not one of the Ministorum's bootlicks. If I were, I would no doubt be basking in the reverent attention of these men and women.

The roars of approval buffet my back like a windstorm as I stride down the steps of the pedestal. It is my fervent wish that no such storm existed.

As my boot leaves the last step, the Crusader officers advance to greet me, smiles of satisfaction on their faces. All except for Perrine. I could see his mask of displeasure a mile away. A second of perplexity crosses my mind. Why does this man remain entrenched in his old ways? I can understand his discontent if a missionary was attempting his trade on these people. Sometimes the oratory and work of the faith-spreaders do not elicit the response they hope for. But I am not a disciple of the Cult of the Emperor. I am His flesh and blood made incarnate. I am the son of a demi-god, of a primarch. I am a god of battle and war. I am an avatar of the Immortal Emperor's Will. Yet this human, this Perrine, refuses to acknowledge that. Lesser men would have called that stubbornness. To me, it is willful stupidity. Or even worse, willful treachery. There is something wrong about this man, something veiled and secreted. Just as I have gleamed into the eyes of a ghoul, I can tell this human hides something from his kin and from me. I will watch him.

"That was a fine speech, sire!" beams Whitemane. There is an air of smugness about her, most likely derived from my words. I cannot criticize her for that. She is the leader of these soldiers. What compliments directed towards them will shine upon her as well.

"Indeed! Fine words said to fine men," Doan congratulates me, his oblivious countenance telling me my reluctant web of lies has ensnared him too.

"You should have another occupation, angel," Melrache's swarthy face is alight with his delighted smile, "Two times we have heard you pronounce great things, yes? You would make a fine linguist. Or even better, a politician."

The men and women who are close enough to hear the Scarlet captain's jest laugh dutifully.

"I leave politics to my superiors," I say, which is true enough. The Captains of the Adeptus Astartes are men of nobility and quality whose talents in warfare and politics are unmatched in the Imperium. They need to be. It is not often that a Guard general refuses the aid of the Angels of Death, but it is common enough to warrant the leader of a Battle Company to be well-versed in the arts of diplomacy. The gift of speech is something I learned from my own Captain, Vallerian Sventius.

"It was a fine speech, as these gentlemen say," a familiar voice drifts into my ears, "But I have a sneaking suspicion we were not incorporated in it."

I turn, as do the Crusaders, to see none other than the Argent woman, Eva, and the band of traitors and xenos march resolutely towards us. I notice the two female xenos that have accompanied me from Darnassus in this throng. I clench my teeth tightly. Restraint prevents my sword arm from lashing out at the incoming band of heathens. Sadly, said restraint is lacking in the Guardsmen. Swords are drawn out from their sheathes, the sound of edged steel leaving their scabbards in unison leaving a metallic tone that is oddly beautiful. These same swords now point towards the contingent of Argent Dawn, their masters wearing baleful scowls where pleased smiles once were. Even Melrache has lost his grin and now sports a tight-lipped grimace in its place. Good. It is good to see this hate against aliens and their human lackeys.

To their credit, the Argent warriors remain stoic in their gait forward. Most likely they are used to this sort of treatment.

"We are all friends here are we not?" speaks Eva, her smile still locked in its place. But while earlier there was amusement in that smile, now there is a hint of tenseness, "Fellow slayers of the undead. Fellow defenders of this land. We can put aside our differences for a little while, no?"

"Never! We will never do that!" the Lady Commissar's outburst is sufficient enough so that I need not to make my own thoughts known, "We will never conspire with traitors to our kind!"

"You dare call us this title?" cries out a man from the Argent ranks, "Did you forget that once we fought under the banner of the Crusade as well?"

"So then you are traitors in all but name," Whitemane replies coldly.

"There is nothing wrong about turning traitor from a company of murderers and blasphemers," growls the leader of the band of malcontents, Gyran.

Before the Crusaders could burst from rage at that last comment, my armored bulk interjects between them and their rivals. It is most bothersome to act as mediator between these two factions, and a job I would have left to others had I the option. But, I will not allow soldiers who could die fighting Chaos die fighting amongst themselves. That, in itself, would have been a most sacrilegious waste.

"Cool your anger," I snarl into my vocalizers, which in turn transforms my stern voice into a rasping, guttural rumble, "I will see no deaths here that are not the enemy's."

"But they are the enemy!" complains Vachon, his rapier at the throat of an Argent solder, whose own sword is aimed for the Scarlet officer's breast.

"That is true. But there exists many enemies of humanity in this universe, captain. Sometimes it is necessary to ally with these enemies when a new threat more terrible than thought possible emerges. Tyranid Hive Fleets. Ork Waaaghs. Chaos Black Crusades. In dire times, the defeat of a greater enemy outweighs petty hatreds."

"See? Even your angel says we are fellows," proclaims Eva, her tone now devoid of tension.

"I did not say that," I admonish the woman for her naivety, "it is only a fool who thinks the enemy of my enemy is a friend."

"Yes, but surely the enemy of your enemy will only be your enemy when the enemy at hand has been defeated," her eyes dance with amusement at this wordplay. My own eyes are gleaming with hatred behind my helm.

"That is impressive, woman. It is you who should be the politician with that able tongue of yours."

"There is far more a tongue can do besides manipulating words, angel," she winks roguishly at me. I blink twice in puzzlement. The meaning behind her remark is lost to me. But judging from the stiffening posture of the Lady Commissar as well as the directed glowers shot by both Keina and Vareesa in this female's direction, it must have been some slight against my honor. The temptation to kill this woman for her insult weighs strongly in my mind, only to be crushed by iron discipline. I would not be a Space Marine if I allowed myself to fall to such trivial affronts. So I ignore it.

"There is a reason why you have come to me. Speak," I take note of the stabbing glares this human receives from the xeno females and the Commissar. I must ask Whitemane later for an explanation.

"It is a simple matter, really. Just as our red-obsessed kin, we too want to be recognized for our efforts."

"Is that so?" now it is my turn to be amused, "you wish to be lauded for your participation in this battle?"

"It is not so cut and dry as my sister says it is," answers Gyran. He ignores the scathing looks by the assembled Guardsmen, and continues, "I am willing to fight and die for your cause even if I receive no recognition. Duty is more important than glory, and I subscribe fully to that tenant."

A glimmer of respect for this man flickers into being within my chest at these words. He is not Astartes. He will never be. But in this one moment, he has fully described what it means to be an Angel of Death. Duty before glory. Always this, and nevermore.

"Yet, while I am willing to put aside glory, there are many more on this world who will not," the paladin directs his gaze at the Crusaders, eliciting murmurs of outrage from the crimson clad soldiers, "There are many fine warriors in the Argent Dawn, Iron Angel. But your hateful ways will alienate them. You say there is a greater enemy on this world. I do not know if this is true. But if it is, then would it not stand to reason to gather more allies by your side, be the human or nonhuman, instead of treating them as you would a stray dog?"

A pregnant pause follows. It is I who break it with speech.

"There is wisdom in your words," I grunt, "Yet for all that wisdom, it is polluted with foolishness."

Truthseeker narrows his eyes. Not hatefully, but skeptically.

"Explain," he says to me.

"Hatred. You declare it as though if it were a shortcoming. A weakness. That is untrue. Hatred is humanity's strength. It is a gift from the Emperor. Hatred is the glue that keeps the Imperium from splintering apart. It is the unifier of all mankind. Without it, there would be no empire of humanity."

"I cannot say I would like to live in an empire built on hate," Gyran's voice is filled with repugnance. He does not understand.

"You would not. It is a dark and forbidding place to live in, whether you are a factory worker or a house noble. The Imperium is an empire that constantly requires lives to exist. The lives of millions of men, of warriors like you and I, are the foundation of its continued existence. You do not comprehend the reason why hate is necessary, paladin. The answer, like so many things in this universe, is painfully simple. Survival. We hate to survive. We hate the heretic because it is through his machinations that our survival is threatened. We hate the xeno because it is their raids on our worlds that endanger the survival of human beings. We hate the traitor because without them, the need to hate in order to survive would not be necessary. Hatred. Mankind cannot live without it."

"So you hate us then?" asks Eva. The Argent woman pulls a lock of stray hair behind her ear with one gloved hand.

"I have not decided yet," this is true enough. I am still unsure if I should hate these traitors or respect them for their strength.

"You are a strange being, giant," Gyran shakes his head, "Sometimes I think you would fit well with my order. The Silver Hand possesses many men with the same redeeming qualities as you. Courage. Honor. Strength. These are the traits of a hero. Other times, I think you could become Azeroth's most evil villain. You possess so little compassion, it is no small wonder that you have not killed us on sight. You are not evil, but you are certainly not good. The Light does not know what to do with you, angel."

"It is a fool who judges men without considering the circumstances first," I reply, "I am evil to the heretics and aliens I must slay. I am good to the citizens of the Imperium. I am content with that."

"We came to discuss the way you treat us. We are answered with philosophy and pointless meandering," speaks one of the Argent Dawn warriors, her face hidden beneath a steel helm, "I doubt you wish to keep us in this army. I can tolerate these Scarlet fanatics, but I cannot tolerate this indifference directed unfairly towards us."

"Indifference is putting it lightly," snarls another, "bigotry is more like it."

"That is well deserved!" spits Doan in anger, "The angel does not tolerate traitors, and neither do we!"

A chorus of assents issues from the Crusader crowd. They in turn are refuted by shouts of ire from the gathered Argent soldiers. The argument that was so recently prevented by me is now in full swing. Slurs and insults rage back and forth, bellowed from furious mouths and supplied by rising tempers. If this does not halt soon, blood will be spilled. And considering the vastly superior numbers of Guardsmen, many of whom are running towards the dispute with drawn blades, that blood will most likely belong to the Argent Dawn. Gyran sees this as I do. He makes frantic attempts to stop his cohorts, but they are gripped in the heat of the moment, and refuse to obey him. His band consists of close to thirty warriors. They are experienced and disciplined, though the latter is not applied in this instance. It would be a shame to lose them when they could be killing the minions of Chaos.

My gauntlet moves towards my right pauldron. Ceramite fingertips glide hesitantly over the ridge in my shoulder guard. They touch the wax seal and the tattered parchment it fastens into place. The Emperor's Blessing, it has not been damaged by the battles that I have participated in since I arrived on this miserable planet. It galls me at what I am about to do. It galls me at what I have to do.

My plated hand detaches the seal, prying it from my armor. It feels like I am parting with a piece of my soul.

The paladin is still trying to calm his men. He turns when my outstretched gauntlet reaches into his periphery, the wax tablet and parchment resting in its palm. His eyes glance at me, puzzled.

"It is called a Purity Seal," my voice is not meant to be loud, but the vox-speakers magnify it to a volume that cannot be called quiet, "Awarded to battle-brothers who display their faith on the fields of battle. Blessed by the Chaplains within our ranks. They are the honor badges of the chapter, and each warrior who wears one does so proudly, for the seal is a testament to his loyalty and his courage."

The bickering does not halt immediately, but my carried tone at least manages to be heard.

"I received this seal upon my promotion to brother-sergeant. The words etched upon its surface were penned by an Astartes named Targon, a fine man, but a finer warrior. They speak of what it means to be a leader. What it means to lead men to their deaths. I was beyond proud when he pinned this medallion to my shoulder the day I took command of Tactical Squad Pallos. I held sway over nine men. Nine. All Space Marines are heroes, paladin. But the men who followed me… they were exceptional… even among Astartes."

"I can believe that," Gyran says above the din, "if you can tear apart abominations with your bare hands, then I can only imagine what ten of your kind would do to this world."

"We won great honors on a hundred campaigns," the memories are hauntingly real to me. I can recall each bloodstained battle as though if they happened yesterday. The drawback of possessing a genetically enhanced brain, "Feats no human could ever achieve were ascribed to us in our chapter's records. We were the best. The finest Marines amid a brotherhood of a thousand. From the day Brother-Chaplain Targon bequeathed me with this seal, I have rewritten and recopied it a dozen times and affixed it to the same place upon my armor. This Purity Seal is my legacy as a commander of men. It is part of who I am."

The hand that holds this priceless honor badge moves further from me and into the reach of the Argent paladin.

"It is yours now."

I see him blink in surprise. And then gratification dawns upon his face. If only he could see mine.

"Thank you for this gift, angel. But may I ask why?"

They have stopped arguing now, the Crusaders and the Argent Dawn. The exchange between me and this paladin is what draws their attention, and they have stopped their insults towards one another to listen.

"Your men ask for recognition. This is my recognition."

A murmur of approval sounds from the soldiers clad in tabards of black and white. They are drowned out by cries of denial from the warriors clad in scarlet.

"You do not have to do this, my lord," hisses Whitemane through clenched teeth, her indignation apparent, "We do not need them. They are merely two dozen soldiers. We have a thousand able-bodied men and women. Do not give such a prized possession to these traitors!"

What the Commissar speaks is true. The numbers of the Argent Dawn are miniscule. But unlike the Crusaders, they are soldiers, not warriors. They have discipline. I have seen it for myself when they moved coherently to battle the blasphemous walking corpses. They are obedient to their commander. This too I have seen when a curt order from Gyran was followed to the very letter. I would rather have a hundred of them, then a thousand warriors of the Scarlet Crusade. Losing thirty of these soldiers would be akin to losing three hundred Crusaders. I cannot allow that.

"Take it," I say, my ire threatening to sway my voice, "and treat it with reverence."

"I will," the paladin grasps the Purity Seal in my palm with his own gloved hand and clutches it to his chest. He looks at me, respect in his eyes, "Thank you, angel… You are a good man."

"Does this mean you no longer hate us?" Eva's question is as annoying as it is innocent.

"The Imperium has hated people like you for ten thousand years. And with good reason. That same hatred is carved within my very bones. It will not soon disappear," I hope my reply is sufficient enough for the woman to shut up. Sadly, it is not.

"Then I will make you like us," she smiles up at me.

Thankfully, I do not have to respond, for at this moment, one of Pureblade's riders comes galloping towards us on his steed. The Guardsmen and their Argent counterparts hurriedly make way for the snorting horse and its master, none too keen on being trampled by reckless hooves. The man reins in his mount, his movements agitated.

"Sire! We heard a voice coming from one of the houses," the mounted warrior utters breathlessly.

"And? What is so special about a voice?" growls the Lady Commissar, her eyes still focused hatefully on the paladin and his cohorts.

"It was a woman's voice, milady-"

"A woman? Are you certain?" Gyran's tone is laced with excitement, "How can anyone survive in this wretched place for so long?"

"If is a human's voice, why have you not investigated the source?" Whitemane adds, her loathing temporarily forgotten.

"Well, we attempted to… But whoever entered the building felt the very air around them freeze. It was like walking into a room full of ice. We could not progress further in besides a few steps."

"You would let the cold get in your way of saving a potential life?" Truthseeker cries out in anger, "Out of my way! The woman is in need of assistance no doubt! If you Crusaders won't help her, then I will!"

I watch the paladin lead the Argent soldiers away towards the row of dilapidated constructs. I follow them. It will be interesting to see how a human could survive for this long in an enemy infested area for such an extended period of time. Before my legs can take me more than a few strides, my eyes catch sight of a gleaming, metallic thing amid the corpses of the Scourge dead. I change the course of my motion in the direction of the shining object. The groups of civilians and Guardsmen give way to my advance, and soon I find myself staring at the body of a creature much like Bilemaw. The carcass is spread-eagled on the earth, the gaping hole through its skull evidence to a well placed sword thrust. A trinket of some sort is resting on the ghoul's tattered chest, an oval shape of dull silver. A thin chain of unknown metal is wrapped around the undead's neck, attached to the ornament to prevent its misplacement. I bend down, my armored joints creaking with protest. My gauntlet rips the charm from its restraints, shattering apart the slim metal twine.

I bring this trinket close to my faceplate, more out of curiosity than genuine interest. Such a thing will fetch very little on the market of this planet or any other, for the charm's coating has lost its luster from age and is dented in some places. Still, it must have been invaluable to its owner, whoever it was, as it was being worn at the time of its owner's death.

My servos whir into motion, propelling me towards the hurrying form of the paladin and his band of Argent Dawn, the amulet motionless in my ceramite palm.

* * *

_Recently, the events of my life have been a little hectic, and hence the reason why I have not responded to my faithful reviewers. I apologize for that. I will continue to reply to any questions asked in the spirit of the last chapters. Once again, I am grateful for all reviews, whether they be long or short!_

_Guile: The hatred of the Imperium, and by extension, the Space Marines, have lasted for ten thousand years. Ten millennia of indoctrination is a very had thing to shrug off. However, Avarian will get better in terms of his behavior towards nonhumans. This will be a gradual process, and will be spread out throughout the rest of the chapters._

_Salle1980: Thanks! You'll like this chapter then._

_JagerPanzer: I understand your concerns, and appreciate your thoughts. Sometimes this story does get a little bit overwhelming. But rest assured, I won't be giving up on it any time soon. In terms of characters, one of the reasons why this story will be about 150 chapters in length is due to the POVs I plan to incorporate. This fiction won't just be about Avarian, it will be about other characters as well. You've already seen this in the forms of the Chaos sorcerer, Marlene Redpath, the Legion of the Damned, and a few others. In the end, all of their paths will cross, one way or another._

_Leafty8765: Thanks!_

_TDM: They are both. At least, that's what the fluff says they are._

_Soulless Reader: The Scarlet Crusade is an organization that has troops all over the Plaguelands. It will be a while until Avarian can unite them all. So sit tight, relax, and enjoy the show! :P_

_Winged Knight: He's actually not that deviant from Astartes thinking. Space Marines do respect the enemy for valor, but at the same time, hate them with a passion. It's actually quite hypocritical if you think about it. That being said, our hero's thought process will gradually change as the story progresses._

_Fudgey Pounder: Thank you!_

_Pinto: Thanks!_

_Wat dis fing do: !_

_Hammerchukery: Heh, I figured that phrase would get some laughs._

_Xynth: Well, the Raven Guard and their successor chapters are known to use lightning claws, them being the Raven's Talons or something like that. As for a Night Lord, well, yes, it would be rather interesting to see him inflict terror on the denizens of Azeroth. Have you read Soul Hunter by the way? It's a great book about your favorite legion._

_Tzeentchian Techpriest: Stoic incarnate indeed!_

_Huitt1989: Thank you!_

_Velocityshade: Chaos first, xenos second, in terms of being purged._

_StGene: Pulp Fiction is one of my favorites as well._

_The Amazing Chicken Diner: It may be possible. Vareesa is a rogue after all, and added with her temperament, I can easily see such an event occurring._

_Starspawn07: Eh, it would depend on the chapter. Some chapters chemically castrate their members while others like the Salamanders have families of their own. For the purposes of this fic, Avarian can "get it on". He just doesn't want to or feel the need to. Psycho-conditioning isn't very fun, as you can imagine. And I have not forgotten the Dreadnought. He'll appear later._

_Peanuckle: He wasn't exactly stymied. Just surprised. It's not often when a woman comes up to you and starts making sexual innuendoes to your face. Such a thing occurs even less when you're a nine foot tall superhuman with very nasty weapons. :P_

_Pyskotic Addiction: Yup. They'll be appearing again, but that won't be for a while._

_Akira Stridder: News, for one. And of course, her quest._

_Mattrocks: If this was a book, I'd be paying a fortune in royalty to both Games Workshop and Blizzard Entertainment. As for the power fist, well, Avarian possessed a pretty awesome weapon before his arrival on Azeroth. You'll just have to read on to find out!_

_Icgcarlos: Thanks!_

_Timewatch: Well, the Warcraft comics do display them as horrendously hard foes to kill. As well they should be. Huge, hulking monsters who feel no pain? Only a Space Marine would want to fight those!_

_Lunatic Pandora1: Probably too heavy. _


	40. Salvation Comes in Many Flavors

Chapter 39

The Plaguelands belonged to the Scourge. It had belonged for many years now, and the cruelty wrought by Arthas and his tide of monstrous servants showed. The ground was cracked and fractured in wide expanses, unrecognizable to any who had once tread upon the same earth before the coming of the undead. In some areas the splits in the land were deep, inhospitable ravines, great grooves carved into the terrain by dark magics and evil sorceries. No life could grow on the edges of these despoiled fissures, for the essence of the plague had seeped into the very depths of the soil. Both the Argent Dawn and the Scarlet Crusade called these places Scars, and would not go near them out of apprehension for the desolate and miserable conditions the chasms afforded. With no potential prey to ignite their interests, the wandering packs of undead avoided these barren patches of land as well. Which made it perfect for a base of operations against the Scourge. But for that, one would either need ample amounts of courage or ample amounts of insanity.

Luckily for Finnall Goldensword, courage ran in her veins.

The Scars had been her and her warriors' strongholds ever since they had chanced upon the uninhabited region when retreating from a successful ambush on Scourge forces. With no patrols of the living or the dead guarding the areas, the ravines made perfect hideouts for her guerrilla band. Here, they could rest with little fear of reprisal when they tired from harassing the enemy. However, the security that the fissures offered was offset by the knowledge that should they be cornered by any significant number of undead, their fates were as good as sealed. It was a long drop to the bottom, and none of them wished to find just how long it took to reach said bottom.

For numerous months they had used these fractures in the earth as their staging grounds, camping along the edges and planning out in detail each successive ambush. Out of sheer luck, they had never once been noticed by the concentrations of Scourge that roamed the nearby areas. Sadly, all luck had to end sometime.

The daughter of two bloodlines rammed her curved quel'dorei blade into the midsection of an axe wielding cultist, noting with satisfaction the shocked expression written on her foe's countenance. It was pleasantly rewarding to see a face contort in pain, when for months, all she saw were slack jawed features blemished by mindless idiocy. She would much rather kill the living minions of the Lich King than the ones already dead. Sadly, the Cult of the Damned had few members when compared to the countless host of walking corpses Arthas held mastery over.

With a deft turn of her wrist, she slid her sword sideways, slicing apart the screaming man's innards with faultless grace. A second later and her exquisitely shaped weapon seared through the robed figure's side, erupting from frail flesh in a mad welter of blood. The cultist's shrieks became a gurgling moan as he expired, his form collapsing into a lifeless heap before her feet. Without a break in her motion, she lashed out in a perfect horizontal sweep, her blade's sharp edge parting the arm from a snarling ghoul's shoulder. She stepped back, avoiding the return blow made clumsy by the sudden loss of a limb.

"Bayan! Where is Mattiel with the horses?" her cry to her subordinate went unanswered at first. Her fellow half-elf was focused entirely on his crossbow's iron sights, and ignored his leader's shouted question. A quick pull of the trigger and the taut strings of his weapon released, launching a thick steel bolt that hissed as it passed through the air. A pouncing ghoul was transfixed while in mid-leap, the force from the projectile throwing it back to the ground before its jump was complete.

Bayan grunted. A self-congratulatory noise for his own fine marksmanship. He drew another bolt from his belt strapped quiver before replying.

"Location not known. Last seen attempting to break out. Fate? Most likely dead."

The response was a strange one, but Finnall had grown used to it. Her band of warriors was small, no more than sixty in number. Yet they were close. The bonds between them were forged in the fires of war, and there was nothing on this world that could break them. She knew each one of her men by name, knew their histories, and knew why they fought. They were a family, a close-knit group of three races, humans who believed in her, half-elves who found sanctuary with her, and high elves who sympathized with her.

Others called them misfits, or even scoundrels. Especially the half-elves in her group. But not within her earreach. Her fists silenced all those who would dare scorn her followers.

Her sword descended on the undead whose arm she just severed, hewing into the creature's skull and parting in two the gray matter that lay protected within. She had used this blade many a time, but the ease at which it slew her enemies still amazed her. Created from a single vein of mithril ore, it was fashioned and forged by a master blacksmith in the city of Silvermoon. Its keen edge was curved like a saber-tooth's fangs, Thalassian script etched onto its gleaming surface. It had been bequeathed to her mother as a gift, a ceremonial piece despite its ability to kill so well. She was glad that this weapon now found its true calling. It was a shame that it took her mother's death to find this true calling.

"We need to get to those horses, Bayan," she gritted her teeth as another ghoul scuttled towards her, jaws agape to bite, "Otherwise we will die here. All of us."

"You analysis is agreed with. We need those horses," her lieutenant's tone was flat and emotionless as another shaft from his crossbow thudded into a charging cultist's chest.

Sometimes she wished Bayan would speak more. The marksman refused to say anything unless he was spoken to, and even then, his replies were often short and to the point. She knew the man's taciturn nature was hardly his own fault. Abandoned soon after birth, the half-elf lived by begging on the dirt-strewn roads of villages, scraping by through the compassion of strangers. The cruelties of life made the then young Bayan unwilling to express his thoughts through words, and the undesirable trait was only exacerbated when he reached adulthood. She knew she could not make him talk, but that did not stop her from trying. Out of all her followers, only he refused to open up to her.

Despite his unwillingness to converse, he was the most dependable warrior in her motley crew, and an excellent wielder of ranged weaponry. As though if confirming to her last thought, the half-elf male smoothly pulled out a smoothbore pistol from a holster at his hip and fired at a hunched, malformed shape about to disembowel one of her band. A thunderclap issued from the mouth of the pistol, followed by a cloud of white smoke that enveloped her subordinate from view. The ghoul's head snapped back, a cavernous hole in its left cheek. A few heartbeats later the odor of expended gunpowder drifted into her nostrils, threatening to overwhelm her sense of smell with its crude and unpleasant stench. She never did understand why Bayan resorted to primitive firearms as opposed to graceful and elegant bows. Most likely the human side of him held more sway than the elven side.

"Thanks for that," calls out the man her subordinate just saved, "I'll buy you a drink when the inns allow your kind entrance."

"Alcoholic beverages. Interferes with aim once consumed. Do not want," was Bayan's stoic reply.

Finnall laughed at these words, her voice rich with bloodstained mirth. Ducking the swipe of a Scourge's outstretched claws, she riposted the clumsy strike with her blade, cutting the legs from under the foul beast before ending its life with a sword thrust into its leering face.

"We will not be able to hold them for long," a mellifluous tone crept into her sharp ears, and a half-smile crept to her lips at the hidden blame behind it, "Just in case we die, which we probably will, I must say I was originally against the idea of establishing our resting place at the edges of a bloody chasm."

Farah Eventide strode into the mass of ghouls and their human handlers, arcane lightning streaking from her fingertips. Anything touched by the writhing tendrils of purple energy died grisly deaths, bodies rupturing and bursting apart in great spurts of ichor. The high elf mage's eyes were cerulean blazes of fire as she killed, radiating an immense aura of power that caused the undead creatures blocking her advance to warble in fear. A gesture from her dainty hand and a volley of zigzagging amethyst-colored bolts flew into the Scourge pack, detonating amongst them in flashes of violet light. A bloody path was carved through the horde by the sorceress's magical assault, clearing the way for an escape route.

"I am glad that the situation has not dulled your malicious tongue," Finnall responded sardonically, "If we do die, at least I will have the pleasure of knowing your mouth will be eternally silent. In fact, death would be a welcome change if that means it would cease your pointless blather."

"I would hurry if I were you, dear leader," she heard the sorceress say, the urgency in her tone striving for mastery with biting sarcasm, "My mana reserves are drying. It will not last if I have to keep this up."

"Of course, Grandmother Fara," she replied mockingly, "Your words are full of wisdom as expected from your advanced age."

"I am not old!" her band's sole mage indignantly spouted.

She did not have the time for a comeback. Already she was herding her band towards the opening granted by Farah's destructive sorcery. To an outsider, it would appear that she and the mage had some sort of rivalry between them. Indeed, the poisonous words each spewed towards one another did little to dispel that rumor. But in reality, no such rivalry existed. Her men were a rowdy bunch, with Bayan being the sole exception. Farah was the oldest amongst them, having weathered five thousand years in the lands of the quel'dorei. She could not be unruly with them, for many centuries of high elf tradition prevented such coarse behavior. So she turned to barbed words and venomous jibes, the most she could do to lower herself in accordance with the ragtag collection of characters. That and the sorceress had a major fixation with her own age, hovering near obsession, in spite of her elven gift of near-immortality. This caused her to be unmercifully teased by the rest of the band, often with catastrophic results. It passed the time wondrously to see her become incensed at an obvious attempt at comedy.

It was a sobering thought then, that if they could not drive off this Scourge surprise attack, then there would be no more such attempts.

"Threats spotted," uttered Bayan, his lackluster tone betraying nothing, "Cult of the Damned necro-mages."

The half-elf's hands were a blur of motion as he rammed a new bolt into the groove of his crossbow. A heartbeat later, he raised the arbalest to shoulder level and let fly with a pull of the weapon's trigger. The steel projectile sailed unerringly towards its target and thumped into a cloth veiled form's throat. A spray of blood and the figure went down, pallid fingers clutching at the shaft that quivered from its gullet. Five more figures glided past their fallen comrade, frames covered in black robes, faces hidden by masks of purple fabric. Three of them chanted dark syllables and stretched their hands towards the sky as though if pleading to the heavens for help. She heard Farah curse in Thalassian.

A barrage of shadow magic lanced from each cultist's outstretched palms, streaking forth in haphazard paths towards her embattled band. She saw Vara's frame stiffen in concentration as an ice barrier rose from the ground in response to her own chanted words. The solid wall of frost acted as a barricade, halting a good portion of the salvo of dark enchantments and shielding the mage behind it from harm. The rest of her men were not so fortunate. They had no conjured walls to defend themselves from this heinous onslaught. Blackish bolts smashed into her warriors, impaling them on lances of dark energies, and flung their bodies like ragdolls back towards the edges of the cliff.

She saw Lohen, his steel helm flying from his head as his corpse tumbled raggedly to a stop, lifeless and unmoving. She saw burly Roman fall to his knees, halberd forgotten as his carpenter hands tried in vain to prevent his own intestines from leaving the gaping hole in his stomach. She saw Katherine's bloodied body roll in the direction of the ravine, still living, and heard her screams before the wounded girl was swallowed into the depths of the chasm. She saw men and women, once ordinary civilians who had given up their past lives to follow her on a path of bloodshed, writhing on the ground in indescribable agony. She felt her soul writhing in pain alongside them.

An incomprehensible cry of rage issued from her lips. She rammed her clenched fist into the haggard face of an attacking ghoul, the fury in her mind overwhelming all sense of logic and reason. The Scourge creature's head snapped back and the clawed fingers that were aimed for her neck raked harmlessly across her iron cuirass. Her sword descended, strengthened by undying hate, and hewed away half of the beast's ugly face in a black spray of ichor. She did not pause to register this new kill. The anguish that tore at her heart prevented her from doing that.

She had promised Lohen a new weapon to replace his old and battered mace. Already she had a substitute in mind, a finely-made, straight-edged longsword for sale by the Argent Quartermaster at Light's Hope Chapel, one of the few populated places that would offer her and her band refuge. She could imagine the Lohen's delighted grin as he was presented with this new blade, the boy's blue eyes shining with childlike enthusiasm. For he was only a boy. Barely seventeen seasons. He had joined her group because what remnants of Lordaeron's armies left after Arthas ravaged their lands would not accept him due to his age. That was three years ago. But all of this no longer mattered. Lohen was dead now, and hence had no more need for a weapon, be it new or aged. She had failed this promise.

She had promised Roman an end. And end to destruction and bloodshed. The woodworker's family was massacred by the undead when he was away felling trees for his profession. He returned to his home to see his house aflame and his loved ones as walking corpses. Roman always carried his tools with him when he entered the forests. One such tool was an axe. She found the big man standing amidst the havoc the Scourge wrecked, still as a statue, axe dripping with the blood of his wife and his children. No man should ever have to kill his own family. Roman did so with the very implement he used to earn their bread. The man agreed to join her group, but only if he could see an end to the evils of war. But all of this no longer mattered. He was dead now, and hence had no need to see any end. She had failed this promise also.

She had promised Katherine a wedding. The girl was a romantic at heart, constantly dreaming of handsome heroes atop dashing steeds coming to her rescue. All she wanted was to be married to one such hero, to forever lie in his arms and gaze deeply into his loving eyes. Finnall had planned for a fine ceremony for Katherine when the girl found a suitable man to her tastes. She could envision the tolling bells, the smiling people, the handsome groom. And she could imagine the bride, beautiful in her gown of pure white, walking down the aisle to the approving cheers of the crowds. But all of this no longer mattered. Katherine was dead now, and hence had no need for a wedding. She had failed this promise too.

She saw through rage hazed vision the bodies of her warriors, strewn among the Scourge corpses, a few nuggets of righteousness in a field of blasphemous dead. She had promised them all something. And now, they had all been voided by death. She had failed all of them, and this only added to her rage.

Her sword strokes turned into ugly, chopping motions devoid of any finesse, fueled by hatred and loathing. Undead monsters rushed her, snapping with disease-ridden jaws towards her body where succulent flesh and warm blood awaited. Her blade met their rush, smashing down on their heads with little grace, splattering brain matter on her armor and on the ground. A few cultists rushed her as well, but these traitors to all living beings suffered the same fate, their cruelly fashioned swords falling from their grip as her own weapon spilled crimson ichor.

A steel bolt flew past her, inches from grazing her cheek, and thudded into a loping ghoul's eye. Even as the Scourge beast toppled into a disorganized heap, two more thunderclaps sounded from behind her. Two spinning black balls hurtled past her, and a duo of undead heads snapped back, a hole in each brow. Bayan leapt in to the fray to assist his commander, a pistol in each hand. The half-elf brought his weapons butt first on the crown of an advancing acolyte, and drove the cultist to her knees. Another swing and the woman slumped forward, skull shattered.

Bayan had with him the remainder of their band, and Finnall was glad her subordinate remembered what she had forgotten in her fury.

She tugged her blade from a gurgling monstrosity and kicked it back into the crowd of its cohorts. Before her sword could descend once more however, a strong hand ensnared her arm in an iron grip. She resisted, but another hand caught her shoulder and dragged her back before she could break free. She swiveled her head back to see two of her own men pulling her towards the side of the Scourge horde, where the undead were the least massed. She knew what they were about to do, and her conscience rebelled at the act that was about to take place. Her feet fought for purchase on the earth, but the strength of the two warriors easily outmatched her own.

"Release me! Damn it all! Jaron! Baltor! Release me this instant!" her fevered cries were ignored. The two men, one a human, the other a half-elf, continued dragging her with no hint of stopping, "Fools! I am your leader! Obey me!"

"Disobedience is allowed when the leader is in danger," she heard Bayan speak, his voice as flat as before, "we will cut a path through this host for you, Finnall."

"Then you will all be slain here!"

Her lieutenant was embroiled in combat with another ghoul and could not answer. His pistol crashed down on Scourge cranium and caved in decayed skull. Before the corpse could begin its fall, another of its kin assailed the half-elf from his flank. The creature's drool flecked maw shut tight on thin air as Bayan withdrew his exposed arm in the nick of time. An elf fighting beside the stoic marksman impaled the haggard beast with his spear and pinned it to the ground. The thing twitched and died, its diseased blood spilling into the already plagued soil.

"Do not do this!" her own voice was strained and high-pitched, mirrored by a desperate and frantic mind, "If we are to die, then it is better if we die together!"

"Wrong, Goldensword," came the calm and sonorous tone of Farah Eventide, "All lives have meaning. But not all lives are equal in this," the quel'dorei mage's palms glowed with orange radiance and Finnall knew from experience she was about to cast a spell, "Some have more meaning than others. And consequently, your life has more meaning than ours."

She saw the elf move from the barrier of ice, fully exposed to the Cult of the Damned warlocks and their deadly magic. A hail of fire bolts lanced from her outstretched fingertips, and streaked past the struggling Finnall to detonate into the multitude of undead that blocked their path. Wrathful flames blossomed wherever Farah's sorcery hit, setting ablaze wretched ghouls and their living masters in vengeful conflagrations. As unholy creatures wailed and foul cultists screamed, an escape route appeared from the fiery inferno, a corridor of sanctuary amidst the burning, flailing enemy.

Jaron and Baltor hauled her towards the path, never relenting from their duty. She saw Farah smile at her one last time, before a torrent of black magic erased the quel'dorei from existence. She felt bitter tears stain her face, and opened her mouth to scream her friend's name. But if that was supposed to stop the two men from dragging her away, it did not work. She had trained them too well for that.

"Do not resist, commander," Baltor grunted as he pulled, "You are making this hard for us."

She glared hatefully back at the half-elf, a venomous retort about to leave her tongue. She stopped when she noticed the man's tear-streaked face. She cursed herself for a fool for even thinking of chastising these warriors. Just as she felt for the loss of every soldier in her band, so did those under her command. These two men knew those dying just as well as she did, some even better than her.

The blazing conflagration that surrounded the three figures raged higher, fueled by the carcasses of Scourge monsters and servants. The veil of roaring fire soon was all they could see and hear, masking the sight of their comrades from view and drowning out the din of battle. It was harrowing for her to not witness the fates of those she had commanded for these long years. But what could she do, now that Farah's magical assault left the path back impossible to breach?

The pressure on her arm unexpectedly lessened, followed abruptly by an agonized cry. A shrieking Scourge acolyte, his frame wreathed in flames, lunged from the surrounding blaze and latched onto a surprised Jaron. Both figures struggled for a brief second before iridescent embers from the cultist bounded across the short divide between the two men. Jaron screamed as the clothing underneath his armor caught fire, releasing his hold on her arm in his thrashing attempts to combat the inferno that all too swiftly enveloped his body.

Now only restrained by Baltor, Finnall tore herself away from the half-elf in a sudden spurt of energy. A grunt of astonishment came from her unwilling captor, but that ended when her eyes met his. Understanding flickered between them. Her sword arm rose and descended, the quel'dorei blade clutched tight in one hand hacking down on the burning form of the still thrashing Jaron, silencing his screams forever. A mercy stroke. No good man should die in such an agonizing manner. She let the cultist continue burning.

"We need to move. Do not let his sacrifices be in vain," the one remaining member of her band muttered as she gazed mournfully at Jaron's corpse, "Do not let their sacrifice be in vain."

She spun on her heel to face him at those last words, her features clouded with grief.

"I did not ask for their sacrifice," she hissed in anger, the stench of smoldering flesh wafting unpleasantly into her nostrils, "I wanted them to live. Jaron. Katherine. Roman. Lohen. Farah. Bayan. I wanted all of them to live! Not die in this pointless sacrifice!"

"It is not pointless!" cried out Baltor, "You do not know your worth Finnall! It is you and you alone that have kept us together in these dark days! It is your leadership that have kept us from dissolving! These warriors die for you because they value your life more than theirs!"

"And? I cannot lead warriors who are dead! What use am I now that those who have followed me for so long lay slain? If anything it should be I die here so that the others may escape."

She glared back at him, defiant. Once more the two half-elves locked gazes with one another. It was Baltor who broke the staring contest, his head shaking slightly as he spoke.

"Do you honestly believe that Finnall?" the half-elf male's tone was almost lost within the inferno that raged on both their sides, "That you are useless without us? No, ma'am. It is us who are useless without you. We were but mere civilians when you found us, soft and weak. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Carpenters. Not warriors. When the Scourge came, they slaughtered our families and made them into undead creatures. Many of us would have given up then and there had you not found us. We had already lost all hope. But you changed that for us. You gave us a purpose. To destroy the monsters that had taken everything from us. We cannot thank you enough for that."

"So you thank me with your lives? I do not need such forms of gratitude."

"You still do not understand," Baltor's voice was growing labored from the stifling heat, and she imagined that it would be long before both of them suffocated from the growing amount of black smoke, "We are soldiers. We are expendable. You are a woman with a gift for leadership. You can recruit more men, and train them to replace us. We cannot recruit and train a leader to replace you."

"I am but one life. There are sixty-two men and women in our band besides me. Sixty-two lives for one? That is a lopsided trade and one I do not agree with."

"No, not sixty-two," Baltor placed a weighty hand on her shoulder, "Sixty-one. I am still with you, Finnall. And I will follow you to the very ends of this world."

A merciless smile formed on her lips, grim and forbidding. It was a smile filled with self-deprecation. She had inspired this loyalty from her men. But it was loyalty undeserved. She had caused them their deaths, and no amount of comforting words could alleviate that guilt. Before she could put her thoughts into speech, the flames that guarded their escape route suddenly disappeared, gutted like a blown out candle. A howling wind was the culprit, magical in nature, sent from the open palms of Scourge spellcasters. It was swiftly followed by a volley of hissing shadow bolts.

It was Baltor this time, who saved her life. The half-elf's hand, already resting on her shoulder, pushed her away from the barrage's path. She fell heavily, landing on the scorched ground stomach first. She turned on her back just in time to see the last warrior of her troop torn in half by a hail of black magic. Her scream of rage was lost within the cacophony of howls freshly loosed from undead throats. Ghouls bounded forward in loping strides, eager to satiate their hunger with her flesh. She ignored them. Finnall crawled towards her fallen comrade, her prized blade dragging along the dirt behind her. Only he mattered now.

Her trembling hands took her to him. She did not want to look. But she forced herself to. It was the least she could do. Already the man's face had turned a sickly white. The blood was draining rapidly from his sundered frame, pooling in copious amounts among his shredded entails. It would not be long before he died. It would not be long before she died. She swept a hand across his feverish brow. Distant eyes flicked open.

"I'm sorry ma'am," Baltor whispered through blood-flecked lips, "It looks like its sixty-two after all."

Those eyes went dim, and the last member of her band died. The anger drained away, to be replaced by sorrow, and then that too wasted away to become weariness.

She staggered back up, her sword planted into the dirt for support. She heard laughter, utterly devoid of compassion, coming from cultist mouths. They were mocking her. One of them lifted high a bloodied head, freshly severed and nearly unrecognizable. It took her a second to realize it was Bayan's.

The snarling face of a ghoul prevented her from seeing just what defilement had been done to her lieutenant's body. Just as well. She was not sure if she wanted to know. The bestial thing leapt at her, its claws pulled back to slash and rend. Her blade rose from the ground, kicking out a spurt of soil as it sang for the undead's exposed belly. She needn't have bothered. The Scourge flopped to the earth in a limp heap, a perfectly symmetrical hole drilled in its forehead. For an instant, she thought it was Bayan. No other being possessed such fine marksmanship. But that couldn't be right. Bayan was dead.

The front ranks of the undead rushing for her suddenly fell forward, tumbling over one another before rolling into disorganized, lifeless heaps. The second rank surged over the prone forms of their comrades, heedless of their unexpected deaths and drunk with bloodlust. Their putrefied feet took them a single step from the pile of their slain cohorts. Then they toppled over, monstrous features slackened in death. A third line charged howling over their motionless brethren, before they too hit the floor, bodies collapsing in droves and adding to the pile of slaughtered undead.

Finnall blinked in surprise, her sword still half-risen to slay an already dead foe. The ghouls shared her astonishment. Their undulating wails transformed into cautious barks, warning their foul kin and blasphemous masters of this new, unseen threat. The frenzied advance petered out into a slow crawl, despite the venomous rebukes spat from the Scourge acolytes. But if the beasts thought that slowing their advance was going to fend off whatever it was that attacked them, then they were dreadfully wrong.

Heads snapped back, thin plumes of blood releasing from decayed skulls as another swathe of the dead were felled with ruthless efficiency. The caution turned to panic and the mass of undead, now greatly diminished, began to stumble back, baying in fear. Yet, this terrified retreat was not nearly enough to ward off incoming doom. Ghouls crumpled to the earth, spasming in their death throes, feral visages made uglier by fright. This was too much, even for these savage monsters, to bear. The retreat quickly became a rout, with what remnants were left of the Scourge forces fleeing pell-mell back towards their masters. The cultists wavered but stood their ground, and the necro-mages within their ranks pointed emaciated fingers towards her to finish what their minions could not.

Something sped past her, insanely fast. All she felt was the kiss of air being displaced as some unidentified projectile graced the space by her cheek. One of the Damned sorcerers swayed drunkenly, eyes wide open in shock at the trickle of ichor that flowed from the neat hole in his brow. He sank to the ground in a motionless heap of loose limbs, and was followed by the rest of his magic wielding comrades, foreheads displaying similar precise wounds. Without their lords to steel their resolve, the lesser cultists were swept up in the impetus of the fleeing ghouls, and joined in the chaotic rout.

Both living and dead did not get far. Sprays of blood misted in the air as cultists and undead alike were struck down with unerring accuracy. Death came fast and without warning. Entire groups of Scourge would be running for their lives when they suddenly toppled, limbs akimbo as they crashed to the earth. It was as though the Reaper Himself was in the fleeing foe's midst, cutting down whole packs of the enemy with His Scythe. She expected her heart to feel the grim joy of vengeance. Instead, all she felt was sorrow.

She traced the path of the projectile that had sped past her face. It had whizzed by her, narrowly defiling her cheek before ending the life of the necro-mage. Bayan would have been proud at such a shot. The bullet, if it was a bullet and she was not sure, for musket balls travelled at a much slower speed, had come from behind her. She swiveled her head to stare, no longer interested in the carnage in front of her. A patch of forest greeted her tired gaze, gnarled trunks sporting withered branches swathed in dead leaves. That place had been where Mattiel had hidden the horses. Surely, if whatever was aiding her was hiding in that woodland, she and her band would have known beforehand?

The last of the Scourge to die is one of the living. An acolyte dressed in robes of deep violet. He does not look back as he flees, his weapon long since discarded from his hand. His head abruptly jerks forward, a thin fountain of blood erupting from the back of his skull. Momentum forces the body to continue its motion. The lack of cognitive thought causes the body to fall. The cultist slides to a stop, arms spread eagled.

A lone figure emerges from the underbrush of the dead forest, a long rifle raised in the direction of the slain acolyte. Its movements were inhuman in grace, more lithe and nimble than the most agile of elves. Its body is shrouded in a cloak of some unknown material, hiding its identity from her view. Atop its neck was a tall, cylindrical helm of exquisite make. Two beady visors stared out impassively across the terrain, taking in the land, the corpses, and her.

She grimaced. Salvation had come, but was too late for her men. That meant it was too late for her as well.

She stepped towards the strange figure, her footfalls weary and unsteady. The being did not respond to her advance. It did not even move. It just stared blankly at the battlefield littered with corpses. It did not take long for her to near it. Three steps away from meeting face to face, and its voice rang out, surprising her with its softness.

"Do not come nearer, mon-keigh," the tone was unusual, as though it was not used to speaking Common, "we are at a sufficient distance to converse."

Mon-keigh? That was a strange title for her. But it was definitely nicer sounding than the others she was used to.

"Thank you," she said to her savior, trying hard to keep the bitterness from seeping into her words, "I am in your debt. But perhaps when the next time you see people in trouble, you will assist them sooner."

"There is a place not far from here," its response did not answer her question, "A city of ruins that rests upon the sullied soil. Where once there was the living, now there are only the dead. A master of sorcery resides in the heart of despoiled wreckage, ruler and guardian of its hateful inhabitants."

Finnall raised one eyebrow to show her perplexity. She had not expected riddles for a reply.

"Andorhal," she spoke, "is what I'm assuming you mean."

"Across from crumbling walls will be a place of war and bloodshed. It will take but a single days ride to get there. That place you must go," it continued without pausing, as though she was merely a person to be dictated to.

"And I should do this, why? I thank you for my life, whoever you are," was her annoyed reply, "But I will go nowhere until the bodies of my comrades are buried and away from the clutches of necromancy."

She detected from the figure a trace of irritation. Good, she thought. Let it feel what she was feeling.

"That is not allowed. To delay here is to delay the fates. You will go. Now."

"I do not take orders from you. And even if you were my superior I will not listen. I will bury my men first. It is the least I can do for them."

In a flash, the cloaked being's rifle was pointed for her. The surface of the weapon shone with an unnatural sheen, almost like porcelain, and the barrel looked too slender to be deadly. The gun was like a toy, too delicate to be used for war. Yet, the field of massacred Scourge could have resulted from no one else. And the figure had no other weapon attached to his frame besides the one being held in its arms.

"You are valuable to the Farseer's plans," the voice had lost none of its indifference, but unless her ears were deceiving her, it sounded like the being was distasteful of its own words, "But all value can change. Such is the fickle nature of the universe."

"You are threatening me," Finnall growled.

"No. I am persuading you."

Her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword. Three paces were all it would take for her blade to reach the being's neck. It was a wondrously appealing thought.

"Do not think such foolishness," the sentence drove away her fantasy almost instantly, "Even though you possess the blood of a superior race in your veins, one half of you is still human. You are still mon-keigh. I could kill you in a hundred different ways before your first step falls."

"How delightful. To have escaped the Scourge only for a thing who hides its face threaten to kill me."

"Do not mistake my intention. We are not your allies in this, but neither are we your foes. The fates have chosen you for a purpose, and it is our obligation to ensure you accomplish that purpose."

"I do not believe in your 'fates' nonsense. I make my own destiny."

"Then you have no idea the scope of this universe."

She glared spitefully at her savior. She was growing tired of this being's meaningless riddles and pointless rhetoric. All she wanted to do was bury her men, and then mourn for their passing. Why couldn't it see that?

"I can escape. Even if I head for Andorhal, I can still escape. There are many places for me to hide in this accursed land. You will not be able to find me."

"We will watch you. As we have done for many a day."

The implication struck her in full force. Finnall ground her teeth in anger. Her fingers further tightened on the grip of her blade. The next words that came from her lips were filled with barely contained wrath.

"You have been watching us all this time?"

"Yes," it was unperturbed at her change in tone.

"Which means you have been watching the battle unfold."

"Yes."

"And you did nothing."

"Yes."

"Why?"

It cocked its head slightly at this question, puzzled.

"I have stated this before. We are not your allies."

"You do not need to be our allies to help us. We were fighting against the Scourge. They are a common enemy to all races on Azeroth. You had an obligation to aid us."

"No such obligation exists. Our only obligation is to the Craftworld. No one else."

"You could have saved my men. All of them. Yet you did not."

The being shook its head. When it next spoke, it was with the tone of an adult lecturing an ignorant child.

"Only you are needed for the Farseer's plan to succeed. There was no point in saving the others. Death is merely an extension of fate. And fate is not to be tampered with lightly."

"What is your name?" her question took it by surprise, as she knew it would.

There was a pregnant pause. As though if it was considering an answer. Then it spoke.

"I am called Kaitheil."

"Kaitheil," she repeated the name, burning it into her memory, "I will remember you, Kaitheil. When my journey to Andorhal ends, I will come back, and I will find you. Then, I will kill you."

She did not wait for the being's response. Her steps took her away from it and towards the shadowy shapes of sixty-three horses.

* * *

Kaitheil Truesight watched impassively as the half-breed retreated into the dark dank of the forest. She left behind the scenes of wanton carnage, of blood and slaughter, galloping away on her ugly beast of burden along with a crowd of the same beasts in tow towards the direction he had pointed her to. Her slain lay unburied with the carcasses of the enthralled ones, to either rot from the elements or to be used by the primitive practitioners of sorcery the Scourge employed as more troops for their armies. Over half of the mindless creatures were felled by the Long Rifles of the Pathfinder and his charges, and if that was not impressive enough, he himself had accounted for a third of that kill count. The rest were dead due to the mon-keigh and her undesirables, and the difference between their kills and the Eldar's showed. The corpses of the foe slain by these laughable excuses for guerrilla fighters displayed crude and hideous wounds on their frames, a stark contrast to the faultless headshots wrought by his Rangers.

Death, even on the battlefield, was an art to the Chosen of the Old Ones, and that art had to be perfect. Otherwise, it had no right to exist.

Behind his conical helmet, the Pathfinder's delicate features were twisted into an equally delicate frown. The Eldar were not like the lesser races that stained the galaxy. They did not shout when they were angry. They did not cry when they were sad. They did not even laugh when happy. The extremes of any emotion, be it sorrowful or joyous, would easily be sensed by Slannesh's corrupting tendrils. This was the reason why rigidly structured Paths were so instrumental to the well-being of the Craftworlds and their inhabitants. It suppressed the powerful emotions that caused their race's downfall and prevented them from falling once more into the hedonistic ways that birthed She Who Thirsts.

As one who tread the Path of the Outcast, Kaitheil was granted a bit of leverage in terms of emotion. Since his travels often took him far and away from Iybraesil, there was no need for him to be detached and cold as his kin were likened to be. Indeed, it was this freedom of expression that kept luring him back to the life of a Ranger, despite the risk of an agonizing end in the clutches of The Prince of Excess.

"Does she trouble you as much as she troubles me, honored Pathfinder?" a perfect voice dripping with disdain that could only belong to a fellow Eldar spoke above him.

He had no need to look up to discern who the voice belonged to. He knew. They were his charges, after all. Their guardianship fell into his hands. The youths of Iybraesil who were not yet ready to conform to the harsh discipline of the Craftworld's Paths. Ten of them were under his stewardship, and relied on his experience to guide them. This was a great and weighty responsibility over his shoulders, for even the death of one such youth was an unrecoverable loss to an already declining population.

The one who had spoken was called Lorelei, so named after the fearsome Howling Banshee Exarch who led a dozen raids into the mon-keigh's Imperium. The name fit her well, for Lorelei's temperament could only be described as fiery. Kaitheil sincerely believed she would walk the Path of the Warrior once her thirst for adventure ended, whenever that may be.

"Yes and no, young one," he replied, his frown never ceasing but his tone ever impassive.

Lorelei dropped from the thick branch of the tree she was resting on, her supple legs easily supporting her dainty weight as she landed besides the Pathfinder.

"Well. She disgusts me," the female Ranger's tone was laced with revulsion despite the helm she wore dampening the sound, "to think that a superior race… a _better_ race… would conceive offspring with humans is… beyond sordid."

"Is that so?" Kaitheil's cloak dripped on the ground as he turned to face his apprentice, "Why do you think in such a manner?"

"Because humans are beasts!" was the outraged reply. He winced inwardly at such an outburst. Lorelei would need to learn how to master her emotions before she could tread on any other Path, "They are no better than Orks, or even Hrud! They are ugly blemishes in this universe, and deserve naught but extermination! To think that… that a superior species such as these elves would _want_ to mate with these brutes is illogical to the extreme."

A murmur of agreement drifted into his sensitive ears. The others were concurring with the impulsive Ranger. Each one of his pupils emerged from their concealments, slender rifles draped over willowy arms. They had chosen well their hiding spots just as he had instructed, for the half-breed woman and her cohorts had not been able to distinguish them from their surroundings. Neither did the Scourge, but against such dull foes, that was no achievement.

"I cannot imagine what these elves see in the mon-keigh," confessed another of his charges, an Eldar named Naruntiel, "The humans are an inferior species. They are ugly and full of flaws. Though these quel'dorei," the male Ranger pronounced the last word with some difficulty, "are only slightly better in terms of appearance, surely they must realize consorting with such debased creatures will be their downfall?"

"The quel'dorei are no better," spoke Indienil, the oldest amongst the youths, "They are inferior as well. This must be the reason why they mate with humans. Both species are beasts. Animals. Not fit to exist in this universe without the supervision of their betters. It is not surprising that they would find company in each other."

The Pathfinder adjusted his scope slightly, his fingers playing elegantly over the wraithbone frame of his rifle. Many centuries ago, and he would have said the same exact things these adolescents were saying. Perhaps even supported the wrathful Lorelei in her denouncements of the human species and their weakened Imperium. For they were the truth. Humans. The mon-keigh. They _were_ inferior. There was no doubt about that. The Children of Isha once held the entire universe in the palm of their hand. Whole star systems lived and died at their command. Entire species were extinguished from the annals of history at but a whim. And from their ashes, the Eldar created paradises, planets of unbelievable beauty lovingly christened as Maiden Worlds. These things they had done long before the emergence of humanity. As mankind was borne from the wombs of simian apes, the Eldar traversed the galaxy in sleek and graceful ships. As humans stood upright for the first time to look into the skies, the Eldar were creating artificial environments of faultless beauty for their descendents. As mankind constructed their first crude shelters with sticks and stones, the Eldar had already shaped every known material in the universe into flawless pieces of art.

This was the truth. The mon-keigh Imperium spanned the galaxy, but the empire the Chosen of Asuryan built far surpassed it in scale and splendor. The humans were proud of the realm they had created, but to the Eldar, such pride was akin to a child's smugness after constructing a misshapen castle from mud. It was worth next to nothing.

"I believe the honored Pathfinder would like to say something," a new voice joined the conversation, but unlike the others, contained no disdain or contempt. Kaitheil's frown turned upwards into a pleased smile. The voice belonged to a female youth called Anastasia, a pale beauty with silver locks for hair. Though as a leader and protector of these adolescents, he was not supposed to play favorites, this Ranger by far was his choice for company. She had one trait that the Eldar race as a whole had long ago forgotten. Humility.

"Thank you, Anastasia," he replied, genuine gratification in his tone, "There is a reason why I say yes and no to your earlier question, Lorelei."

He nodded to the Ranger in question, and received a grunt for a response. He inwardly sighed at such a display of obstinacy. Youths. Headstrong and impetuous to a fault.

"Your words are without error, young one. The mon-keigh are wretched souls not fit to lick the dirt from an Eldar's boot. They are ugly abominations and entirely without the perfection of our race. The fact that they have populated this universe while we have fallen from grace…"

"_Is a joke the universe shares with no one_," a whispered voice spoke into his mind, as well as the minds of his charges.

"Exalted Farseer," Kaitheil inclined his head, despite knowing that Yrlith was nowhere near enough to return his gesture of respect. His Rangers did likewise, bowing their heads slightly in reverence to one who had mastered the Path of the Seer, "I am honored to be in your presence."

_"My presence is far from here, Pathfinder, though I appreciate the notion,"_ Yrlith sounded amused, but for what reason, he knew not.

"The half-breed has been sent on her way, as you instructed. I cannot say the same for her men. Unless she intends to drag sixty-three bodies away with her."

His jest caused smiles to form on the faces of his pupils, but when the Farseer next spoke, she sounded less than pleased.

_"You did not intervene when her band was threatened?"_

"I saw no need to," he replied cautiously, perturbed at the sudden change in his superior's tone, "Did you, yourself not say that only the leader half-breed was essential to the plan? There was no need to save the others from their deaths."

_"Yes. I did say that. But I did not say leave the others to their fates. Still, as long as the half-breed lives, there will be no disturbance to our goals. You will be commended for your work, Kaitheil."_

"I seek no reward for my service to the Craftworld," the Pathfinder spoke truthfully, "However, I would appreciate it very much if you would offer your words of wisdom to these youths of Iybraesil."

A murmur of apprehension broke out from his pupils, before being quickly silenced by a glare from his direction. Headstrong and impetuous they may be, but even the likes of Lorelei were understandably nervous when conversed to by a hero of the Iybraesil.

_"There is time for me to spare. Chaos has not yet begun its infestation on this world. Enlighten me, Children of Isha. What ignorance ails the future of the Craftworld?"_

"A small one, Great Farseer," admitted one amongst the Ranger group, "We were discussing the follies of the mon-keigh, and were confused concerning why a superior species such as the elves would be willing to stoop so low as to mate with a human."

_"And you are disgusted by this, Zeranien?"_ Kaitheil had no need to ask how Yrlith knew the youth's name. She was one of the greatest psykers on the Craftworld. Her mind could reach out and kill a man with merely a thought. Discerning titles and names were a laughable triviality to one who had become lost on the Path of the Seer, _"This interspecies mating you see before you?"_

"It does," sneered Lorelei, the words coming from her helm filled with spite, "I would rather fall upon a sword than entwine my arms around a human. Disgusting, horrid beasts, the whole lot of them!"

_"Beasts are an unfair way to classify them, Chosen of Asuryan. We Eldar were created by the Old Race to wage battle against the Necrontyr, eons ago. Perfection was what the Old Ones strived for, and it shows in every facet of our long lives. Compare us to the brutish humans, and we are flawless beyond comparison. No descendant of an ape can achieve what we have achieved. We are their superiors in each and every way."_

"It humbles me that the Exalted Farseer agrees with my views," the Ranger's voice was now tinged with satisfaction.

_"In a way, I do, Lorelei. But in another way, I do not." _Yrlith continued fluidly, and Kaitheil wondered briefly if mind-speaking came naturally to one as gifted as her, _"Mankind was not borne from the creations of the Old Ones. They were not created for a purpose, as we were. There is no perfection in their forms because the environment in which they thrived had no need for it. Yet, despite their ugliness, despite their clumsiness, they have progressed well. Sometimes, I abhor these mon-keigh for the very reasons you do. Other times, I cannot help but be impressed by them."_

"But why Exalted One!" Lorelei's furious cry rang against his ears, and the Pathfinder mentally reminded himself to chastise her later for this second outburst, "How can such an obstinate species impress you?"

_"You have answered your own question, Outcast. Because they are obstinate."_

"The mon-keigh's pigheadedness can hardly be called impressive, Great Farseer," Naruntiel's timbre was neutral, but carried flickers of doubt.

_"They are a stubborn species, yes. But stubbornness is the only quality the universe recognizes. For ten thousand years the humans have endured what we could not. They have survived in a constantly warring galaxy while we are reduced to running from our foes on wraithbone arks. This doggedness manifests in their ways of war. Their Imperial Guard is like a massive, cumbersome beast, slow to respond and easy to fool. But when the beast does respond, its blows are unstoppable and without relent. Their warships are hideous constructions of crude materials, and are easily outpaced by our own. Yet, I have seen the destruction one mon-keigh battleship can unleash, and such power rivals our finest Void Stalkers. Only the servants of mankind can create such stubborn designs. Even their Imperium's finest warriors, the Space Marines, are guilty of this trait. They will never yield pursuit of a foe even when our own Shining Spears would have given up the chase. They will never retreat until the most direst of circumstances, and in some cases, never retreat at all. You would call this obstinacy a flaw, Ranger, and there is no falsehood in that. But while it is a flaw, and a most grievous one at that, it is also a strength. And it is through this strength that mankind has prevailed while we, as a race, have decayed with the passing of time."_

"But their flaws outweigh what paltry redeeming features they possess, Farseer! Surely you must see that!" Lorelei's voice was still as loud as before, though it had lost some of its revulsion.

_"I have seen more futures in the symphony of fates than you can imagine, young one. The celestial heavens do not lie when they speak of our destiny, and that destiny is interlaced with the race of man."_

Shocked silence greeted Yrlith's assertion. Kaitheil did not blame them for their sudden loss of words. It was a revolting thought, to think that the Eldar needed humanity to survive. But nevertheless, it was a realistic one. The mon-keigh were like a dam blocking the horrors of the universe from focusing on the Craftworlds. The dam was flawed and ugly, yet it was necessary. One could not demolish the structure without a flood of destruction sweeping away the Children of Isha. All they could do for this dam, was to fix what little they could and hope it would not fail. The Eldar incursions into the Imperium was for this very reason. To fix and repair patches of the dam that threatened to give away.

A raid on a human world devastated the planet and caught the attention of the Space Marines. It was not long before these superhuman warriors discovered the genestealer cults that plagued the planetary government. As cities burned by their maker's own hands, the threat of a Tyranid Hive Fleet was extinguished, and a portion of the dam was restored. The death of an aspiring general in the Imperial Guard meant nothing to an empire of a million worlds. But by killing this one general, the Eldar eliminated the source of a traitorous action that would bring five entire sectors into war. By slaying this one human amid many, a great sundering in the Imperium was prevented, and the dam was further repaired. The rumor that an Eldar warhost was descending on a subsector brought an entire Crusade Fleet to its defense. Just in time to meet a massive flotilla of Chaos battleships emerging from the Warp. With great casualties did the mon-keigh drive back their corrupted brethern, but in the end, the worlds were saved, and the dam further repaired.

Ever since the Imperium's birth following the dark days of the Horus Heresy, the Eldar had done this, manipulating the humans and their destinies to coincide with great threats that their dwindling numbers could not defeat. Many times, the mon-keigh fought the ones plucking at their fate strings. The blood of his ancient race had been spilled in countless battles by ignorant humans resisting the enlightened. But the deaths of a few of his kin could not compare to the destruction of his race should the dam break. And so, the manipulations continued. Some of the Craftworlds actively rebelled against using mankind as a defense, Craftworlds like Biel-Tan and Saim-Hann. Their dissenting voices were silenced when Warboss Ghazghkull launched a mighty greenskin invasion that ground to a standstill against the humans on the planet of Armageddon. They were quieted because many Craftworlds lay in the path of the ork assault, and countless Eldar lives would have been lost had there existed no dam of humans to shield them from harm. And this was only one example of the dam being the salvation of the Eldar.

The Pathfinder had known this for some time. His travels had been many throughout the long millennia, and more than once he had chanced upon humans willing to employ him. The majority of these called themselves Inquisitors, and much did he learn from them.

"_You have many questions, future of our race, and I have the answers," _came the Farseer's tranquil voice,_ "But these answers need to be seen, not spoken. What answers I can give you will pale in comparison to the answers you obtain for yourselves. All of you walk the Path of the Outcast. Find these answers for yourselves."_

These were the same words spoken to him when he had first left the Craftworld. He had not yet found those answers.

* * *

Gyran was the first into the dilapidated structure, his footsteps quick and hurried over the prospect of a human still alive in this ruined place. He regretted it immediately. An eerie coldness assailed his skin, despite the heavy plate armor covering his frame. The feeling was like being frozen in a block of ice, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the sensation. There was something wrong about all this, and a tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed for him to escape the haunting chill. The Crusaders were not wrong in saying they could not withstand the unnatural cold.

The paladin's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and a hint of sorrow ached within his breast at what he saw. This house once belonged to a simple family, that much was certain. There were no ornaments of beauty and luxury often seen in the dwellings of nobles. The furniture, wrecked and littered about the floorboards as they were, were not the expensive, decorative furnishings one would expect in a house belonging to the rich. Whoever had lived here before the advent of the Scourge were plain folk, and had probably relied on toiling the fields for a living. The few farming implements that lay randomly across the wooden ground as though if they had been dropped in a great panic only supported his assumption. He snarled balefully as he spotted a table that had been crashed to the floor by a tremendous force. The claw marks around the scene left little doubt as to just what caused this damage.

Hundreds more of likewise houses dotted the defiled landscape of Lordaeron, their former inhabitants either dead or gone. The hordes of Arthas left none alive in their quest for slaughter. This dwelling was familiar to him for it was layered much in the same way as his own years ago. He and his sister had been raised by doting parents in a similar home, and the memory of happier days forced a wistful smile upon his lips. That smile was stopped stone cold as a pitiful mewling sound issued from behind the upended table.

Gyran marched resolutely towards the source of the noise, confident he had found a survivor. It galled him that a woman could have lived for this long in Scourge controlled territory without aid. What suffering she must have endured to remain hidden from hungry eyes. What horrors she must have borne to survive in this desolate area so devoid of life. But all that would change. There was a force of scarlet clad soldiers outside this structure's very doors that could protect her, though their ideologies differed from his. He hated to admit it, but the Crusaders were very good at protecting the remaining civilians of Lordaeron… at least the ones they didn't kill outright under suspicion of being undead. Still, the innocents that had been imprisoned within the Scarlet Monastery had been well-provided for, and even taken in by Solliden's men and their families. As a plus, the presence of the giant, while sometimes intolerable, was sufficient enough to control the more wanton urges of Whitemane's men, and he was eternally grateful for that.

The Argent templar's hand closed tightly on the wax tablet and tattered parchment he had been given. The Iron Angel had called it a Purity Seal, and it was obvious that the decoration was highly valued by him. But he already knew this. Before the angel had explained to him the seal's meaning. The initiates of the Silver Hand also carried pendants of devotion, and it was not unheard of for the more zealous members of his order to inscribe words of prayer on their armor. He understood just how much this item meant to its owner, as did many in his small army and that of the Crusaders. They were all worshippers of the Light, after all, despite their differences in ideology.

The bitter arguments between his warriors and Whitemane's had halted entirely when the giant presented the seal to him. It had been a magnificent gesture on the strange man's part, and he respected him all the more for that. He could not comprehend the hatred that simmered beneath the giant's plate, but knew that it was hard to overcome. By parting with his prized possession, the angel had demonstrated his willingness to work with the Argent Dawn. And that was enough to earn the loyalty of those under Gyran's command.

The paladin's gait slowed as he neared the toppled furniture. The chill in the air had intensified. How, he did not know. The unholy cold weighed heavily on his limbs, and he half-expected to see his arms coated with frost. His legs were becoming numb as well, though no wind or storm assailed his figure. There was something just not right here, and it troubled him that he could not identify the problem.

He heard a commotion behind him, followed by a voice he was all too familiar with.

"Where is the survivor Gyran?" Eva stepped hesitantly through the battered doorway, shivering from the depressing chill, "By the Light, this place is colder than Northrend. How could anyone live in a place like this?"

That was a fine question, and one he did not know himself. No living being could exist in this dark, damp hovel and expect to thrive. The miserable atmosphere. The lack of food and water. The surrounding areas filled with Scourge. Especially the surrounding areas filled with Scourge. Even the most skilled of rogues could not have hidden from undead eyes for long in this desolate house. But if no living being could exist here… then that meant…

The templar's eyes widened in horror. His free hand, wrapped in steel, reached for the war hammer strapped to his back. Too late.

A shimmering, incorporeal shape rose from behind the ruined furnishings, its figure vaguely human. It had claws for hands, long talons stretching out from spidery fingertips. Its features were blurred in a way that was all but unrecognizable, and along with the rest of its body, resembled a haunting specter from the grave. As Gyran's shocked gaze spread downwards, he realized the thing possessed no feet. It had no need for it. Instead of treading on the ground to advance, it floated in midair. What appalled him the most, however, was that he could see right through the apparition, as though if it never existed. And now, the thing was headed directly for his sister.

"John? Is that you?" the thing spoke in a frightened whisper, "Are the undead already here?"

The floating shape glided past him, not inches away from his face. At once the numbing cold became icy lances of agony. His fingers trembled from the supernatural chill, and released their hold over his weapon's shaft. The war hammer fell from his transfixed hand and dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. The phantom halted in its advance towards Eva, who had backed herself in a corner in sheer terror, and craned its neck towards his direction.

"Where are you John?" it's haunting voice was a sorrowful murmur, causing a semblance of pity to form in the paladin's breast, "Have you left your wife here to be preyed upon by those beasts? Ooooh! I won't forgive you for this!"

The ethereal figure shifted its path towards him, and he quickly uttered a silent prayer to the Light. A comforting warmth immediately fought for dominance in his body with the disturbing cold, a reward for his faith and devotion. It was not enough to fully void the chill from his arms, but it was sufficient enough for him to scoop up his fallen weapon. He brandished his war hammer in a combat stance, wincing in pain as the maul's steel grip clung to his numb palms.

He knew what this thing was. He had heard of them before, from the veterans of the Argent Dawn, who had given them many names. Ghosts. Phantoms. Specters. Wisps. Wraiths. The underlying concept, though, was the same. Tortured souls who writhed in the agony of undeath, forever seeking an end to their suffering. Unable to realize their lives have long ended, these wretched beings are forced to roam the lands, their minds slowly driven to insanity by their torment. Their slightest touch caused paralyzing shocks of agony, and their mere presence could inflict terrible fright upon the bravest of mortals. It was a good thing then, that these spectral beings were uncommon and not often seen by the living, preferring to haunt the places of their death. Unfortunately for him, he had stumbled into one such place.

As the wraith neared, he could make out a hazy, ethereal face wracked with anguish. He raised high his hammer, and waited for it to come closer. He muttered another prayer, this time for the Light to strengthen his weapon. The blunt end of his maul grew heated at once and shone with a righteous sheen of radiance. A regular weapon could not be relied upon to destroy an incorporeal thing. By blessing his war hammer with holy power, he hoped to at least hurt it. Out of the periphery of his vision, Gyran saw that Eva had moved forward to give him support. His sibling's gloved hands held flickering orbs of luminescence that mirrored the light swathed across his maul in brightness, and he knew that he could count on Eva's healing to mend his wounds should he become injured. It was a reassuring thought and he was glad to have it.

"What folly is this for warriors to balk at entering a building? Grown men do not fear the trifling cold," a harsh, grating tone sounded from outside. The paladin bit back an oath as the ghost's head slowly swiveled away from him and towards the source of the metallic voice.

The Iron Angel had to stoop to enter the ruined adobe. Even then, his ivory colored helm still scraped the rotted lumber that was the top of the entrance. One enormous gauntlet was planted on the doorway, splintering the decayed timbers to make an opening large enough for his immense frame. His red eye slits gleamed in the darkness, and focused on the spectral form in the midst of scattered debris.

"Holy Throne of Terra-" was all the giant had time to say.

The ghost gave vent to an ear-splitting shriek, which at the same time, sounded strangely like a cry of joy. Its ethereal frame surged for the surprised angel, arms outstretched. The wraith's mad charge was greeted by a massive fist, propelled by the hulking suit and the man within. Gyran expected some harm to be inflicted by the powerful punch. He had seen firsthand what woes the giant could inflict to minions of the Scourge with his hands. It made sense that this undead, despite being incorporeal, would at least feel some of the damaging force behind his strike.

He was proved very wrong.

The plated fist, travelling in a blur to the paladin's eyes, connected squarely with the hovering phantom's chest. A grunt of astonishment came from the angel's grimacing helm as his strike met no resistance. The enormous clenched hand sailed through the apparition as cleanly as it would through thin air. Before the giant could draw his limb back for another blow, the ghost had already reached him.

"Oh John! My John! Thank the Light you are here! I thought you abandoned me!" the apparition's arms encircled the man's waist in what could only be described as a delighted embrace. The angel stiffened visibly, and the templar winced in sympathy. He could only imagine what sort of agony was coursing through the war seraph's veins due to the specter's touch.

The giant staggered back, the ghost still clinging to his waist. A static filled snarl raged from the mouthpiece of his helm, constricted with pain.

"What madness is this? What is this unholy thing attached to my armor?"

He was about to reply when the phantom spoke for him.

"My love! Do you not recognize me?" it stretched out with a withered, disembodied hand towards the armored warrior's face, but such was his height, that only the breastplate was reached, "I am Janice! Your wife! How could you have forgotten me!"

A moment of uncomfortable silence reigned. It was broken, like many others, by Eva.

"I had not realized you were already taken, angel."

The man's response was an angry growl. His faceplate turned towards Gyran, seeking an answer that the templar was not sure he knew.

"It is a ghost," the paladin spoke softly, hesitantly.

"You will have to be more descriptive than that, Argent," the giant attempted to wrench the specter from his war plate, but once again, his gauntleted hands simply passed through the incorporeal body.

"I do not know much about them. They are rarely encountered by the living. They are supposedly the spirits of the dead who believe themselves to be still alive."

"So you are telling me this thing that assails my armor has a terrible memory?"

"Well… yes."

"Thank you, paladin. The next time I need information regarding an enemy, I will call upon you so that you may enlighten me with your vivid, albeit brief, explanations," the sarcasm that spat from the angel's grill-like mouthpiece was thicker than a stegadon's hide.

Before he could make his scathing retort known, a new voice, soft and beautiful, seeped into his ears.

"It may seem like a simple explanation, but the paladin's words are correct in theory."

Instructor Malicia strode delicately past the ruined doorway, her slight frame shivering from the eerie chill. She glanced nervously at the giant whose looming figure was a full head and shoulders taller than her. In response the angel shot her a scathing glare of pure loathing, and one of his massive hands twitched in the direction to the holstered gun by his hip. The elf quickly looked away, and instead focused on the apparition that remained clutching the giant's midriff.

"If you have something to say, then say it, traitor," the hate laced tone of the angel caused the former Scourge instructor to recoil slightly in fear, "Lest I find a more unpleasant way to force the knowledge from your brain."

Strangely, Gyran found himself agreeing with the odium directed at the elf. He believed strongly in redemption, and to him, even the most hardened of criminals could be saved by the Light. But someone who had fallen under the sway of Arthas? That was an evil he was not sure the Light could forgive. He had seen the horrors inflicted by the acolytes of the Cult of the Damned firsthand. They had been enough to last him a lifetime. Maybe others could forgive this Malicia. He most decidedly would not.

"Yes," the elf took a deep breath before continuing, "Well, the being you see before you now, is as Sir Truthseeker said, a ghost. An incorporeal thing chained in its own torment to the mortal plane. But he is wrong in saying that all ghosts lose their memories. Some retain them, and know that they are already dead."

"How would you know this?" Eva asked, her normally pleasant smile gone from her countenance, "Have you created such pitiful creatures before with your necromancy?"

"I am not a necromancer. I am a teacher of shadow magic."

"I see no difference," he said in place of his sister.

Once again, a moment of silence reigned. This time even more awkward than the last. Gyran was keenly aware of the faces of his own men staring into the wreckage-strewn room from outside. Much like his earlier expression, their visages displayed horrified fascination as they gazed at the wretched spirit. He felt a stab of pity for the phantom. How cruel for it to suffer like this, object of scorn and fear from all those who looked upon it. It was a mercy that it did not realize its condition.

"Oh John," the wraith spoke suddenly, breaking the silence like thin glass, "Who are those figures behind you? The ones wreathed in fire and flame? They look very intimidating. Are they soldiers sent from Andorhal to protect us?"

"Fire and flame?" whispered Eva in confusion, "I think soldiers who are wreathed in fire and flame would soon not be soldiers at all."

"They are very big, John," the specter continued, giving no implication it had heard his sibling, "And they are clad entirely in black! But I don't think there is any black on the uniform of Lordaeron's armies. Why do they have skulls and bones etched onto their armor? Oooh, John, I don't think I like these soldiers very much!"

The angel snarls, his white colored helm swiveling to glare at Malicia. The meaning was simple. An explanation.

"Ghosts sometimes are lost within their own memories," the former Scourge elf said softly, "They believe themselves to be still alive at the moment before their deaths. This one's plight is similar. It thinks itself to be still living, and does not know it has died for some time now. To it, we do not exist, simply because we did not exist during its life."

"Then how come the ghost thinks the angel is its husband?" Eva questioned.

"A link to its past," was the elf's response, "He must have something that was once the specter's."

The hulking man grunted and opened his free hand, revealing a well worn pendant in his palm. The effect on the phantom was startling.

A joyous cry erupted from the incorporeal shape, causing all those present to flinch in surprise. Ethereal arms lifted up, incorporeal hands clutching tight the giant's opened palm. At once the haziness surrounding the figure faded, blurred lines becoming straight and distinct, vague features turning sharp and lucid. Where once an unidentifiable shape loomed, now a woman had taken its place. She was old, thought not wizened. She had a handsome face, and the silver locks of hair on her crown added to that image of aged beauty. Her garments were simple, cloth-spun and without the needless embroideries that nobles often wore. A farmer's wife. A child's mother. Just another of the countless lives lost to the Scourge.

"Oh, my love! You found it! Thank the heavens!" the woman's face was alight with a delighted smile, "I could have not left without it!"

"What is this trinket that makes you stay so?" the angel's voice was as hateful as before, but there was genuine curiosity in it, "Are humans so materialistic that they will die rather than see their wealth gone?"

That was an accusation he could not bear. Gyran's mouth opened to refute the giant's unjust allegation. In the end, he didn't need to. The ghost spoke for him.

"Have you forgotten John? This amulet. This amulet was your gift to me on our anniversary. Don't you remember, my dear? I was so happy that day, as were you. This amulet is a symbol of our love, of our bond together. It is a symbol that whatever may befall us; our faith in each other will keep us strong."

The angel stares down at the specter and the frail hands placed in his gauntleted palm. When he next speaks, the hatred is gone from his tone.

"I see. Thank you for reminding me."

The woman nods. Her fingers leave to the medallion gingerly. And then they suddenly returned, feverishly tracing the silver surface. Her face loses the smile.

"Something is wrong, John," she murmured uncertainly, "the amulet is incomplete. A part of it is missing! Oooh, dearest! Can we stay a while to search for it? I simply can't live with the thought of a piece missing!"

What the giant did next, shocked all in his presence.

The angel smashed a massive, bulky fist into his armored chest, the sound reverberating within the tight confines of the room. He stood straighter, back upright, and spoke.

"You have my oath, ghost of the living, that I will recover this missing piece for you. I swear upon this oath in the name of my chapter, of my primarch, and of the Emperor. I will find what you seek and deliver it to you. By Corax's Blood, it will be done."

The woman's smile returns.

"You were always a trustworthy man, John. That's one of the reasons I married you. You do not have to promise me anything. I know you will come back with the missing piece. But please hurry. The undead are nearing, and I don't want the last sight of my life to be you becoming one of them."

From the corner of his eye, Gyran saw Eva wipe something from her eyes. He smiled at that. Compassion. He had thought the angel possessed none of it. He was wrong.

The ghost slowly glides away from the giant, her face no longer anguished. The giant watches her go, his gauntlet still open to display the pendant held within. The paladin used this time to convey his mind.

"I… I had not expected this from you."

The man's grimacing helm slowly turns to regard him.

"I am surprised, I admit," he continued, "I thought you lacked empathy for your fellow man. I have been proved wrong."

"Life," said the angel, "is a sequence of surprises. Some of them are pleasant. Others are not. Pray, Gyran."

"Pray for what?" he asks.

"Pray that you are not there when life becomes unpleasant for me."

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay guys. This chapter has been long since overdue. I had a bit of writer's block in the beginning, and added with real life, conspired to delay this chapter. However, this chapter is the longest one I have written, and should be one of the better ones. Quality over quantity eh? Again, please review! Sometimes, it is only through the rereading the reviews of my faithful readers that I can dredge up the strength to continue this fic!**

_Overdrive1: The end of days have come! :P_

_Jesse: Thank you!_

_Salle1980: Thanks! Racial leaders will be mentioned, as well as have their POVs incorporated. You will see Jaina and Varian again, as well as some of the others. Tirion will also have his part to play. And hopefully, very soon!_

_Iron elsar: I can update today! :P_

_Uzumaki-barrage: Thanks!_

_Xynth: Many of your recommendations I have also thought about as well. Some of it will be incorporated in this story. Some of it will not. _

_OmNomNomingNid: The venerable dreadnought will appear. Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about him!_

_Night Hunter MGS: Space Marines tend to be very honorable when dealing with their allies. So in the end, if our hero triumphs over Chaos and the Scourge, he won't go on a purging spree on the Argent Dawn, since they have provided warriors for him. That, and the Argent Dawn will prove to be essential later on. The Imperial faith is very similar to the Light actually. Living Saints often heal wounded and injured people with the Emperor's Blessing, and are much like paladins when they are in the midst of battle. You are the first to guess Perrine's intentions. I will not say if you are correct, however. The truth might even surprise you! _

_Supreme Tactical Bias: Update? Yes. Soon? Sadly not this time. :P_

_Lunatic Pandora1: With a long story like this, and with the way I write, its oftentimes hard not to cliff hang. :D_

_StGene: Thank you!_

_Hammerchuckery: Thank you!_

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: If Whitemane were to fall for Avarian, it will take some time. She is very fanatical in her beliefs, and engaging in indecent acts with an avatar of her faith is a major no-no. The Land Speeder will eventually be used, as well as the jump pack, and the myriad of equipment Avarian has for his disposal._

_Dumbledore is Gay: Azechral, the World Bearer sorcerer, has already met some of the adventurers, and quite predictably, wiped the floor with them. As for Avarian, Keina, Vareesa, Karduk, Malicia, and later Cyndia, can be somewhat classified as adventurers._

_Peanuckle: Azechral is a World Bearer. Summoning daemons is what they do best!_

_Timewatch: He is quite the hypocritical bastard isn't he?_

_TheEmperorProtects: The dreadnought reawakened, and then went promptly back to sleep. The guy has been there since the Great Crusade, and won't be awakening that easily. Anything I have mentioned in this fic, will come into the plot sometime, so the dreadnought will make his appearance. Just not now. By the end of this story, Avarian will not be so keen on making Azeroth a human only world. But as he is right now, he wouldn't hesitate in purging the nonhuman races. However, the fates just haven't give him a chance yet. Thank you for your review!_


	41. A Night of Reflection

Chapter 40

The tattered robes of Araj the Summoner drifted lazily behind their wearer as he glided past a row of dilapidated structures. The lich's skinless face turned towards the line of ruined houses, peering at them with spectral eyes from empty sockets. It was hard to imagine that thousands of people had once lived in such structures, safe within the city's walls of stone and granite. Harder still to imagine that the very cobblestone street he was floating above, derelict and ill-maintained as it was, was once tread upon by shopkeepers, artisans, soldiers, and peasants alike. The master of necromancy followed the road's winding path with his chilling gaze, knowing full well that the path, years ago, would take a man through many a bustling district. Now, all of that was dust and ash. Dust and ash caused by his hands among others.

The Summoner's visage was devoid of flesh, stripped away by the magnificence of the undeath. His features were set forever in a rictus leer, a constant mocking grin that made uneasy both ally and foe. No one could tell whether his smirk was faked or genuine. No one had ever asked. But on this day, at this very moment, his smirk was indeed genuine. He was reminiscing as he drifted, remembering past glories and victories all done in the Lich King's name.

Like the woes he had inflicted upon the very city he was gliding through. What a wonderful day that had been!

Years ago, Andorhal had thought itself safe from the Scourge invasion. The city was one of the largest in the realms of Lordaeron. As thus, it had mighty walls and towering bastions to defend from attackers. Footmen stalked the battlements, weapons at hand, alert and wary of threats. Knights of the Silver Hand patrolled the streets and alleyways on their noble steeds, comforting the populace and steeling their resolve. Civilian militias were rounded up and given blades to hold and training to learn. Whoever decided to attack Andorhal, was going to pay with blood for every inch they gained.

This was a very brutal mindset, and one that was actually effective against the glorious armies of the undead. The number of villages and hamlets, where defenses could be erected, resistances could be formed, but whose yards and fields were all but empty when the legion of the dead arrived was countless. Their inhabitants had fled, carrying what wealth and personal treasures they could on their backs. It would have been better if they had stayed and fought. The Scourge tide did not require rest or nourishment as the militaries of the living did. Their marching pace was inexorable. It did not take long for them to catch up to the weary civilians seeking to escape. Scenes of bloodshed and carnage flashed intermittently across Lordaeron's landscape, accompanied by terrified screams and undulating howls. When all that ended, when the screams faded, when the sounds of snapping bones and hungry maws dissipated, the undead marched on, their ranks freshly swelled, leaving behind broken baggage trains and corpses too mutilated to use.

Andorhal was a bastion of strength in a land filled with weakness. And so was the might of the Scourge halted outside its great walls.

Araj's gliding gait had not stopped as he remembered. His way of traversing came as naturally to him as strolling while thinking of pleasanter things would to a human. One of the lesser advantages his form granted him. Not long ago, his frame was that of a lowly cultist, an initiate to the vast underground organization known as the Cult of the Damned.

In truth, despite the promises of Kel'Thuzad, life as an acolyte was no better than that of a peasant. To toil and labor at the crack of a whip. To heed the words of his new masters like gospel. It was only through providence that he had arisen from the common ranks.

His transformation into a lich had come long before the assault on Andorhal was to take place. The experience was one he would never forget. Flesh and skin sloughing from bone and running like water down his writhing frame. It was akin to shedding clothes, and the frailties of his mortal shell the garments he was shedding. The process of transfiguration had been painful. Yes, very much so. But through the haze of agony, Araj had been ecstatic. For when the pain ended, he would have been made renew, no longer bound by such trivial things as age and death. He would be a being of power and station, and that thought alone was what kept him from the edges of madness as his body was wracked by sorcerous torture.

The Summoner's gliding body halted as it neared a towering construct of blackened obsidian. Immense spires twisted up towards the heavens, great edifices carved into existence by the summoned magiks of the acolytes of the Damned. The surface of the structure was as smooth as polished rock, glinting with a glossy radiance that no mortal metalsmith could duplicate. To many, this construction would have been an ugly, blasphemous creation. Not so, to him. Such a creation was the embodiment of the perfection the Scourge had achieved through undeath. It was a shame that the living could not see that.

The lich's smoldering eyes, alight with witch fire, peered at the mounds of prone shapes that surrounded the construct. Corpses. Dozens of them piled in organized stacks. Arrayed all around the great edifice that sprouted from the earth. These empty vessels were for cases of emergency. Many months ago, a motley collection of adventurers had sneaked into the ruins of Andorhal, and nearly destroyed his sacred form with the support of Alliance soldiers. Such a bold incursion must not be allowed again, and thus, he had ordered the structure before him built, a place to house tormented souls until the time he would have need of them. A mere word from him would force the souls of the fallen into the lifeless cadavers and reanimate them into guarding their master.

Necromancy. This was the way the Scourge destroyed the mightiest human kingdom on Azeroth and this was the reason Andorhal fell.

Many of the refugees that rushed for the protection of the city's mighty walls were already infected with the Plague of Undeath, unbeknownst to them. The commander of the garrison possessed a fair and compassionate heart, and let these terrified civilians into the fortified capital without checking them for hints of sickness. That would prove to be the city's undoing. Great numbers of men and women died the day they were allowed in, choking the streets with corpses. All too soon the lifeless bodies rose from the ground, madness in their eyes and hunger in their minds. The screams began in earnest. The shrieks of terror were followed swiftly by an all out assault by the Scourge forces grouped before the walls, all of whom had waited patiently for this unintended signal.

The footmen manning the walls were unable to mount an effective defense. Many had been sent back into the city to contain the mayhem and assist the civilians. Those few that remained on the battlements were too few to drive off the massive, coordinated attack. Nimble geists scaled the earthwork with their bare hands, crawling over the parapets of stone to do battle with the defenders. Muskets discharged at close range, swords flashed in the evening light, and men cried out in anger, in pain, and in fear. Resistance was fierce, but the outcome was never in doubt. The geists swept away the human soldiers in a tide of striking claws and lashing talons. A select few, created to be more intelligent than their cohorts, ravaged their way to the city's locked gates and flung them open. Seconds later, the Scourge host surged into the city of Andorhal, with Lord Arthas himself at the forefront.

What a day that had been! Had Araj retained his lips and tongue, he would no doubt be licking the former with the latter.

The ghouls had been the first one in after Lord Arthas. Their long, loping strides easily carried them past the mindless zombies that comprised of the undead army's bulk. With wild abandon, these hunchbacked creatures hurled themselves at civilian and warrior alike, creating spots of wild havoc throughout the compromised city. The walking dead that lurched after the ghouls were eager to take advantage of the maddened confusion. Hundreds of men and women were dragged down by the undead, left to their fates by panicked friends and family too afraid for their own lives. Groups of civilians stampeded haphazardly in different directions, with the majority meeting packs of roaming Scourge and dying with terror in their hearts. Those that met the former crown prince in their panicked flight were the most unfortunate. Frostmourne drank deep the souls of the slain that night.

The last cordon of resistance was lead unsurprisingly by the Knights of the Silver Hand. A paladin was their commander, and he rallied both footman and peasant to the banner of Lordaeron. How valiant that sight was, to see a solid line of men form to defy the Scourge onslaught. But in the end, this last ditch attempt to fight off the encroaching darkness was woefully inadequate. Half a dozen abominations lumbered into the human ranks and tore the line into bloody ribbons.

By morning dawn, Andorhal was firmly in the hands of the undead. Additionally, the Scourge armies were further swelled in number by ten thousand zombies.

His part in that battle was minute. He encountered very few fleshlings. Those few that did stumble across him were quickly exterminated with frost magic that turned hot blood into ice. Lord Arthas left very little for his servants to toy with.

"Master," hissed a voice much like a snake's.

The Summoner slowly swiveled to see who had addressed him. A figure shrouded in robes of deep purple bowed its head to him in reverence. Its features were hooded and hidden from sight, but Araj did not need to see the face of the cultist to recognize him. Only one man possessed a voice as vile as this one's.

"Brutus," the lich's tone was an emotionless rasp, mists of frost billowing from opened jaws, "How goes the time-dilation research? You have promised me much these past weeks and I am most eager to see it concluded."

The head acolyte of the Damned operations surrounding Andorhal further lowered his head in response.

"Soon, master. Soon. The bronze dragon still struggles against our work, but she is weakening fast. Her barrier against us grows frailer with each passing day. Already temporal parasites are feeding on the energy she expends to keep us out. It will not be long until her futile resistance ends and she becomes vulnerable to us."

He considered that. His own cloth garments fluttered as he drifted slightly higher, forcing the cultist to stare up in order to see his master.

The dragon had been a thorn to his side for quite some time now. Barricading herself within one of the few buildings left untouched in this ruined city. The magical obstruction she had woven was surprisingly resistant to his and his minions' attempts to clear. But that did not surprise him. Dragons were creatures that thrived in the essence of sorcery, and even one could cause great headache to a commander if not dealt with swiftly. Fortunately for the Scourge, the Lich King had long known what damage the winged drakes could inflict to his forces, and had subsequently developed a potent weapon to counter this threat.

The solution once more, was necromancy.

Frost Wyrms. Once mighty dragons that soared on leathery pinions. Now, skeletal frames forever wreathed in the icy grip of death. Just as powerful they had been in life, these risen beasts could scour away entire battalions of the enemy with their breaths of frost. And unlike their living kin, Frost Wryms could easily be reproduced from the dragon bones that littered the snow fields of Dragonblight.

If Brutus was successful in rupturing the magical barrier, then the drake that hid behind it would be at his mercy. Not that he planned to give her any. As soon as the bronze dragon was dragged from her place of sanctuary, he would strip the flesh from her bones and instill the undeath upon its reptilian frame. What better way to gain favor from the Lich King than delivering a freshly constructed Wrym for his armies?

It was a most delicious prospect and one he was eager to achieve.

"Master. He approaches," his acolyte lackey whispered.

Araj turned gracefully in midair, in time to see a figure clad in full plate stomping towards him. A malevolent helm, crafted into the likeness of a screaming skull sat securely over its head, twin spiraling horns jutting from each side. A spiked mace, wielded by two hands, was strapped to his back, glinting with malice. Attached to its shoulder and billowing behind its gait was a cloak of crimson, the color of spilled blood.

"Salutations, Sir Vauron of Acherus," the lich spoke through frost rimmed teeth.

The death knight did not pause to acknowledge the greeting. Instead, his armored sabatons continued its stomping pace towards the Summoner. Diamond hard eyes stared out from vision slits. They were full of accusation.

"You will explain this. Now."

A grinning skull was tossed from a rune etched gauntlet, bouncing along the ground until it rolled to a halt before the lich. Araj peered down in distaste. The skinless head belonged to none other than Cauldron Lord Razarch.

"My riders found your boot-lick like this, along with two thousand of our minions. Their corpses were burned beyond the point of usefulness. You will explain this unequivocal waste of our resources."

He had known this. Each Scourge, whether they be vicious ghouls, lumbering zombies, hulking abominations, or skittering crypt fiends, were all connected to him. Their simple minds were like flickering lights within his dominant conscience, each an inconsequential glimmer attached to his own unnatural intelligence. This was the way the Lich King enforced his will. Using his more powerful minions as overlords of the lesser ones. Making his commands known to the mindless horde through his mightiest servants.

It had perturbed him when a whole swathe of trivial lights suddenly dimmed one by one. A light gone meant the loss of a minion. An entire swathe gone meant the loss of many hundreds. It had confused him then, since he knew of no force capable of destroying such numbers of the dead that existed in the Plaguelands besides the Scarlet Crusade. Yet the foolish humans in crimson were marching to aid their cohorts at Tyr's Hand, and would not have the time to engage in a battle. A most perplexing mystery.

"They are my minions, first and foremost, death knight. They do not heed the call of Acherus."

Vauron spat on the ground in response.

"All minions belong to the Lich King, you overgrown skeleton. They serve equally under the chosen lords of the Scourge."

"Meaningless words, sir knight. Those blessed with the touch of undeath in Andorhal and the surrounding fields only follow my commands. They walk when I order it. They attack when I will it. They kill when I command it. These resources are mine to use. They will not answer your call. You are free, however, to try to wrest these minions from my control."

The death knight snarled at the challenge behind his words. Araj was amused by that. But the confrontation so staged by Vauron had not surprised him. The rivalries between the factions within the Scourge were unknown to the living, but that did not mean they didn't exist. The knights of Acherus, the Frostbrood, the Vrykul, the arachnid spidermen, Cult of the Damned, and most recently, the San'layn all vied for the attentions of the Lich King. Like bickering children under the cold gaze of an uncaring father. It was only due to the iron will of Arthas that no civil war had occurred between the invidious factions.

"Watch yourself, lich," growled the fallen knight, "Your arrogance is suffocating. Even for one who no longer needs to breathe."

"I am not arrogant. Merely confident."

"Your confidence is misplaced, sorcerer. Only one mistake is needed to throw this entire operation into chaos. Even as we speak, Galvar prepares to lead the Scarlet Crusade from Hearthglen to save New Avalon from my brothers in arms. He does not know he walks into a trap. When the time is right, the dead from Andorhal _must_ swing into the rear of the human marching line, where they will be trapped by forces from Scholomance and the Eastern Plaguelands. Pureblood has nearly three thousand soldiers with him. He will not go down easily."

"I know what is required of me," Araj hissed sibilantly, more than a little annoyed.

"Do you? I very much doubt that," the Summoner could feel the ruthless grin forming behind the knight's helm, "If you had known what was required of you, then you would not have wasted two thousand of our minions."

"My minions," he corrected once more.

"Regardless of who they may belong to, it does not change the fact that our resources were drained by two thousand."

"You remain fixated on this number, death knight. As though if the loss of two thousand of my servants means something," the venom that was laced within the lich's voice could kill if applied, "Let me correct this assertion. Two thousand is nothing. Nothing. There are five times that number in my city alone, and a further three thousand that roam the farm fields outside. All together I can call upon thirteen thousand blessed of the Plague. Ghouls. Crypt fiends. Skeletal warriors. Abominations. All these reside in my army's ranks. My force is the most powerful in the Western Plaguelands. The destruction of a few hundred zombies is not worth my notice."

"A few hundred is a strange way of classifying two thousand," Vauron replied tersely.

"The mindless ones are of little use in a maneuver like what you are suggesting. They are sluggish and slow to respond. They will not reach the battlefield in time to encircle the Crusaders. Only the ghouls and the spidermen will be fast enough in their pace to strike the Scarlet Crusade from behind. You will find that their numbers are untouched. I have kept them from patrolling my domains in anticipation for this day. I have wasted no minions of mine that are useful. Only the fodder has been disturbed, but we can both agree that there are much more where they came from, no?"

"Nevertheless," growled the knight in anger, "you cannot deny the fact that something out there is destroying the zombies. Losing one or two, or even a dozen at a time is not unheard of. But twenty hundred at once? No. There exists no single being on this world that can lay waste to such a quantity of our minions within a single day. An army might be marching to aid the Crusaders from Hearthglen for all we know."

Now that was making sense. The death knights of Acherus were usually beings of raw aggression, not known to rely on logic and rationale. There was a reason why they were the champions of the Lich King, after all. For one to display something besides the need to slaughter and kill was definitely a pleasant surprise. Araj decided he could respect Vauron for that. Still, despite this sudden bout of logic, the fallen templar was wrong.

"Do you know what resides outside Andorhal's walls, sir knight?" his tone was patient, the earlier vehemence gone.

"Enlighten me, summoner."

"A bleak, depressing wasteland," the lich gestured with relish, sadistic glee in his mind, "In four different areas I have planted my plague cauldrons, and for years they have contaminated the land in accordance with Lord Arthas's wishes. There is no life in these realms. The wild beasts that once roamed the land have long ago died from the plague. Entire forests have wilted and perished by the glorious disease. The very nutrients of the soil have been seeped away. Nothing can live out here, Vauron."

"I assume you will get to the point."

Araj came close to sighing. Logic and reasoning was all well and good, but such welcome traits needed a patient intelligence to guide them. Not curt intolerance. He felt the former respect he had for the death knight ebb a little.

"An army requires many things to function. You should know this. An army needs food to feed its soldiers, water to sake their thirst, grass to feed their horses. They will find none of these things outside my city. Any army that travels into the Plaguelands will starve to death long before they can inflict any harm upon us. The destruction of the zombies can only be attributed to a raid, by the Crusaders in Tirisfal Glades perhaps. But by another human army marching into a despoiled wasteland? No. That is madness, death knight. Not even the most zealous of the Scarlets will set foot on this land without proper supplies."

"And yet that is what the humans from Hearthglen are doing."

"Only because they expect to reach New Avalon within a day."

Vauron shook his head fiercely, as though if denying the wisdom in his words.

"Your explanations leave me less than satisfied, lich. I do not care what chance there may be of an army marching from Tirisfal. It may be a raid as you suggested. Or it may be a massive force from the Scarlet Monastery coming to lay siege to your city. Regardless of what it may be, I intend to find out just what killed those zombies. The trap set for the Crusaders from Hearthglen must not be foiled. If a threat exists that can endanger the plans of the Lich King, it is my duty as well as yours to see it exterminated."

This time, Araj did sigh. It was like talking to a petulant child, this conversation with the death knight.

"I am fully aware of my obligation in this upcoming task. You will see Andorhal marching to destroy the Crusaders along with what forces Frostwhisper and Rivendare can muster. But do not expect me to go along what whimsical theories you have in your head. I will not commit my minions to half-thought fantasies."

The fallen knight glared at him in fury. Then he swiveled on his feet and marched away, plated boots smashing into the stone street. Araj fought down the urge to chuckle.

Brutus gave him a cautious look.

"Is it wise, master, to anger a knight of Acherus in such a manner?" the cultist asked hesitantly.

"Probably not. But what will he do? Cry to Darion about it?" the Summoner gestured impassively towards the retreating figure before turning his attention back to the acolyte, "Now. Back to more important matters. Tell me how you intend to deliver this dragon to me."

* * *

I have never liked civilians. I understand the need for them, make no mistake about that. But I cannot bring myself to like them. Though they are necessary for the Imperium to function, they are also the weakest link in the dominion of man. I cannot help but wonder if only these noncombatants were given the most rudimentary of training and a well made lasgun, how many raids by the Great Enemy and xenos breeds would be stopped in their tracks. The one resource the Imperium possesses without end is manpower. There are a million worlds and more in the realms of the Emperor. Countless trillions of men and women who labor for wages in their pointless occupations. With such numbers, thousands of Crusades could be launched, reclaiming the worlds that we have lost to the alien and the traitor. Even if that is not a possibility, than at least worlds could be further fortified, delaying the foe until reinforcements can arrive.

But my thinking is a wasted one. There will always be humans who run instead of fight, who will flee in cowardice rather than stand proud besides their soldier brethren. There will always be those who would rather rebel when their worlds are in peril, rather than resisting the invaders with their loyal kinsmen. Men and women who let their weakness become their masters, and will refuse to crawl from the pit of frailty they have dug themselves into.

When a world is besieged, it is these weak fools will cower in their homes and beg for the Emperor to deliver salvation. It is a shame that worthy men must die to protect them.

And now, I am surrounded by the same people I am so disdainful of.

My steps are measured as I make my way through the Crusader peasants. I must be careful not to tread upon the children who run past my legs in droves. It is an annoying task, and one I soon grow tired of. Damnation! Do these youths know no danger? One just ran straight through my legs as though if they were mere obstructions! One wrong motion from me and I could have crushed the brat into a pulp.

The boy turns his head to greet my furious gaze. Either he does not notice my anger or is willfully ignorant of it. The child grins up at me cheerily and even waves a frail little hand towards my helm. I ignore such a jovial display and continue to plough on forward, hoping the parents would soon wrest their offspring from my path.

I am soon marching amidst the baggage train the civilians have brought with them. Wooden carts of varying sizes, drawn either by horse or ox, are parked in an uneven line on either side of me. Furniture and other household items are piled in disorganized heaps in theses rickety constructions, bound into place by thick rope and cable. Curious faces peer at me from these wagons. More children, I realize with displeasure. At least these ones are kept from running haphazardly along my path by their mothers, all of whom nod politely back at my gaze.

I grunt in annoyance as I am forced from planting my feet into earth by another child. Useless pests, I think.

"They seem to like you, angel," my eyes moves from the playing youths at my feet to the source of the voice.

"Solliden," I say in acknowledgement.

The burly farmer nods at me in reply. A mail vest, battered and well-used, clung to his muscular frame. Two equally battered greaves protected his thighs, their surface pitted and worn from a blacksmith's hammer. The man wore no helmet, and his brown hair clung thickly to his scalp. An equally brown mustache sits above his mouth, along with sideburns plastered to each side of his face. In one gloved hand he held a steel broadsword, the only part of his gear that did not look like it came from a rubbish dump.

"Children these days," the land-tiller waves an indolent hand towards the youths scampering around my legs, "Always amusing themselves regardless of the circumstances. I bet they think it's all a game and this," he jerks his head in the direction of the baggage train, "is just another adventure."

I am forced to agree with him.

"Go on you little rascals," he gestures at the children with both arms, "Go back to your mothers and behave for once."

A collected moan of disappointment came from the youths before they trudged away towards their waiting families. I watch the small figures disappear into the arms of their parents, and my ears catch the words of censure that follows.

"Blasted little dykes," Solliden mutters, but his face betrays his statement, "They'll be the death of me before long. If the Scourge doesn't get to me first, that is."

"The Scourge won't get to you," I promise, "Not as long as your men possess the same courage they did on the battlefield."

The farmer chuckles and fumbles with the wooden scabbard that dangled from his belt. With difficulty he manages to sheathe his blade before responding to me.

"Don't lie to me, angel. You know as well as I do that my men did nothing more than stand in place while the majority of the undead headed for the real soldiers."

His candor surprises me, but that does not last long.

"Nevertheless, they stood their ground. You should be proud of them."

"Bah. More like they wavered and barely managed to keep their wits. Some of them were close to running when the zombies lurched into our lines."

"Fear is natural in men. There is nothing wrong with being afraid. Only by conquering their fear do men become heroes."

Solliden grunts, and pats the hilt of his sword with an affectionate hand.

"If you're looking for heroes, you certainly won't find them in my militia. Truth be told, they didn't run because I was threatening them from the back. I may be growing old, but I can still ram this blade up some young upstart's arse," he hesitates and gives me an apprehensive look, "Pardon my language sir. Old habits die hard."

I feel the urge to smile creeping across my face. I suppress it.

"Cursing is a habit of soldiers. You have a warrior's blood in your veins, farmer."

"Aye. That's what my daughter says," he says casually, "Tells me I should be permanently in the militia instead of tilling the land."

"Your daughter?"

"Rhiana. She's the captain of our little militia army."

"I see."

I continue my pace forward, now no longer bothered by the little horrors these mortals call their young. Solliden keeps up with my gait, his legs taking three steps in the same time I take one. He intends to keep me company. A brave proposition. I can respect him for that.

"The men say you met a ghost in that ruined house back there," he throws an arm in the direction of the ruined buildings, "They say the ghost was a woman and thought you were her lover."

My fingers twitch towards the second amulet that now hangs down my neck.

"They are not mistaken," I say.

"They also say that the ghost hugged you in her madness."

I think of the spectral being's fierce embrace and the icy cold that followed.

"It was a new experience," my confession causes the farmer to shiver.

"That must have been awful," he rubs his arms as though if fighting back an imaginary chill, "A ghost's touch is said to be so cold it could freeze the blood in your arteries within seconds. Must have been colder than my wife's attempts to make love."

I make no comment. I do not understand the comparison.

"Well, I hear you accepted a request from the ghost," he continues, "Good for you. Poor woman must have suffered so much in these recent years. It was very kind of you to accept her quest. Shows you got some compassion."

Compassion. If this land-tiller and the others think it was compassion that made me agree to the specter's request, they are woefully wrong.

Souls are sacred to humanity. They are the very core of our existence. Each soul is pure and untainted when it is first born. When a man is tempted by the whispers of Chaos, it is his soul that screams the loudest in warning. And when he truly does fall to the temptations of evil, it is his soul that dies in agony. Those who have lived a life without sin have the comfort of knowing that when their existence ends, their souls will remain pure and unblemished. Then, their spirits will travel the expanse of the universe, until they reach the Imperial Palace of Holy Terra. The souls will tread up the steps to the Eternity Gate, and there, they will be judged by the Immortal Emperor.

The woman's soul had been chained to the pendant. As such, she could not make the journey to be judged. That, is a grave blasphemy, and one I could not allow. I did not agree to the ghost's request out of pity for her situation. I did it because duty calls for me to cull blasphemy wherever I may find them.

Let these humans think it was compassion that guided my hand. They would not understand otherwise.

Solliden reaches into his pocket and rummages within its confines for a few seconds. A grunt of victory and the farmer produces an oaken smoking pipe, smooth and even from many years of use. A few strikes from the tinder and flint he turned out from his other pocket and the agri-worker is soon puffing out rings of smoke. He sees my gaze riveted on the object jutting from his mouth and immediately spits it out.

"Ah, there goes my poor manners again. I apologize for that, angel," he grins sheepishly at me, "Would you like a try?"

I look distastefully at the proffered item in the farmer's hands. The scent that wafts from the pipe's head is a heavy one, and all too soon I grow tired of inhaling it. Some sort of leaf ground compound is my guess. Most likely causes lung-rot and other unpleasant diseases after long term use.

"I will have to abstain," I state.

"Suit yourself then," Solliden jams the pipe back into his mouth and happily breathes in a lungful of grey fumes before continuing in his speech, "The Crusader soldiers say that you gave the Argent Dawn paladin one of your prized possessions in acknowledgment for his bravery. Is that true?"

"You have a fondness for rumors, human," I manage to hide the irritation in my voice.

"Forgive an aging man from sitting too long around the campfire with his loudmouthed friends," he chuckles, "It is my fellows who makes these rumors. I am the only one dumb enough to ask if they are accurate or not."

"That is not a very desirable trait."

"No, probably not. But I possess it anyways."

"Yes," I admit after a second of thought, "I gave the paladin one of my Purity Seals."

The farmer crosses his arms over his chest. His face grows impassive as he shifts the pipe jutting from his lips.

"Do you know what I think?" he asks quietly.

I do not care what he thinks. But if I were to voice my opinion, that would seem rude.

"I do not," I reply neutrally.

"I think you did a fine and noble thing," he nods at the wisdom of his own words, as though if they were valuable to me. They are not, but I do not tell him this, "The paladin might be Argent Dawn, but he's got a good heart. The man was probably Silver Hand before the Scourge came. Good men, all of them. Almost completely wiped out fighting against our traitor prince. A shame, really. All their high ranking leaders were slain in battle. What's left were the few knights who defended places the undead didn't attack. Those became our own Scarlet Champions. But a few did join the Argent Dawn when they first formed. Your paladin was probably one of these. I think he deserves some credit for his actions these past years."

"You do not sound like you hate those who would consort with nonhumans, Solliden," my observation causes the man's features to grow even more impassive.

"Permission to speak freely sir?" Once again, I struggle to fight back the smile that attempts to spread across my face. His daughter was right. The farmer should have joined the militia. He practically breathed military efficiency.

"Permission granted."

"I'll be honest with you, angel," his voice lowers by an octave and my Lyman's Ear automatically filters away unwanted noise to catch his words, "I would rather have the Argent Dawn protecting our lands than the Crusade."

I am caught unawares by this confession. The thought that a human would seek security from an organization of xenos and traitors instead of one filled entirely with his fellow man is a revolting one to me. The urge to smile disappears completely, and a frown soon appears on my countenance. Solliden sees the sudden change in my pace. His face turns from impassive to one of caution. Smart man.

"The soldiers of the Scarlet Crusade are all fine me and women, don't get me wrong about that," he attempts to amend the earlier words he has said, "Solliden Farmstead would have long been overrun by the undead without them. My life, and those of my people are in their debt. But by Teneas's Crown, you've been to their monastery haven't you? Looked into the dungeons they keep? They're filled to the brim with people whom they claim have been infected with the plague. I've seen many a man dragged away by the Crusaders and never return to his friends and family. Light be willing that I don't share their fates."

I see now. He fears the torturers of the Crusade. And with good reason. I have seen for myself what pain they can inflict to a human body.

"They take away all those they deem as enemies and interrogate them," I state, "It is as simple as that."

"Yes, but the problem is they think everyone is their enemy. I've had people I've known for ages taken away from their homes by the Crusaders. But I could swear there were no symptoms of the plague on their bodies. As for interrogation, the word implies that those being questioned will be released. I have yet to see the jailers release anyone from their prisons."

I remember the dank confines of the monastery dungeon and the terrified humans they held within. Not a pleasant memory.

"They will do no more of that," I say, "I have made my objections known and the Lady Commissar will heed my words."

Solliden smiles in relief at me, and removes the pipe from his mouth.

"Now that is very good news! I am beginning to like you more and more, angel… metaphorically speaking of course."

I grunt behind my helm. Humans and their illogical figures of speech. Sometimes it is hard to communicate with them.

A slight figure suddenly stumbles into my path and kneels before me. I halt, as does the farmer. It is a girl. One of those formerly kept in chains in the Scarlet prisons after closer inspection. I remember dimly her being the one I stalked to before meeting Gyran in the dungeons. Unlike then, she now appears to be in good condition, most likely due to the new clothes on her back and a few full meals. Her brown eyes peer up at my helm and I see the fear hidden within those wide open pupils.

"Hail."

She flinches at this one word I have uttered. Holy Throne, how her fright sickens me so.

"Great angel," the girl stutters, "I wanted-d to thank you f-for saving me from the Crusaders."

I stare down at this fragile human and think that had I the choice; I would rather have saved someone else.

"Appreciation is unnecessary for duty," I growl into my vocalizers. She shrinks back further.

"I also wanted to express my gratitude to the paladin who spoke up for me," she peeks up at me again. Some ulterior motive makes her do this, I realize. But I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Got a heartache for the paladin, eh?" Solliden's teasing voice caused the female to blush slightly and confirmed my suspicions at the same time, "You're wasting your time, girl. All paladins are chaste. Well, all the decent ones are."

"I would still like him to know he has my thanks," the girl persisted, her cheeks growing redder and redder with each passing second.

"I will see he is notified," I speak, more to make her leave than anything else.

"Thank you," she bows her head and quickly retreat to the sides.

"Looks like the paladin has an admirer, eh?" the land-tiller says jokingly as we leave the girl behind. I resist the urge to shake my head. Admirers would only get in the way of a firefight. I cannot see a use for them. I thank the Emperor I possess no such devotees.

We near a thicket of dead trees. This is where I will leave the farmer and continue on alone. I halt in my gait, and my companion stops as well. I turn to regard the man by my side.

"This is where our stroll together ends," my tone is neutral as always.

"A shame," the man responds readily, "You are a man of few words, angel, but at least you are willing to listen."

Willing? No, that is not the correct word I would use to describe our conversation.

"Hmmm. Well, I guess it's time for me to head back and hear some more rumors from the campfire eh?" he nods politely at me, "But before I go, tell me how you angel types say goodbye."

"I do not understand the request. Clarify the words."

"You know. Greetings. How do angels like yourself greet your fellows and such."

"For the Emperor."

"Pardon?"

"We say 'For the Emperor'."

"Ah. Well then. For the Emperor, Iron Angel."

This time, I do not resist the smile that creeps upon my face.

"For the Emperor, Solliden."

* * *

It was said that night was the time Elune would shrug off her earthly bindings and soar into the heavens to take her place among the stars. Dancing amidst the glittering constellations of the evening sky, the Moon Goddess would sometimes allow her worshippers a glance of her majestic beauty. The trailing tail of a comet. The flashing rainbow of colors that was an aurora. These were the ways Elune manifested herself to the night elves, and the Priestesses of the Moon would constantly scour the skies for signs of their goddess.

Keina Stormsong was currently searching for one such sign. The kaldorei sentinel peered up at the deep blue heavens, her eyes seeking for a glimpse of the divine being she so venerated. Though she was no woman of the cloth, she had been taught a little on how to discern the mysteries of the celestial. Sadly, she detected no presence of Elune in the multitude of flashing lights that framed the night sky. She saw the gleaming light of distant stars but none of them held the presence of the Moon Goddess.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips. The sentinels were the military branch of the Priesthood of the Moon, and they took just as much comfort in seeing the Star Maiden as did their priestess sisters.

"Your Elune hides herself from view," came a sultry voice, causing the night elf to turn, "I believe that means an ill omen in your religion, no?"

Keina grimaced. Not her, for the love of the Moon Goddess, please not her.

Vareesa Suncharger strode slowly towards the sentinel captain, a disarming smile upon her exquisite face.

"What is it you want, sin'dorei?" she snapped at the approaching blood elf.

"Such an attitude," the rogue's smile was disgustingly attractive, and Keina secretly wondered how many resolute men had fallen to such a beguiling display, "Can a fellow elf not enjoy the sight of the night sky as well?"

"I am somehow not convinced that is your true intention, assassin."

Vareesa's nose wrinkled a little at the cynic response, as though if her reply had been distasteful.

"Your ill-defined suspicions do you no credit, night elf. I am here merely to gaze at the stars along with you. I have done this before, you know."

"I find that hard to believe," the sentinel growled.

The blood elf did not reply at first and instead pointed a finger towards a series of blinking lights framed in the sky.

"That is The Serpent, so called because of the nine stars that combine together to form the body of a snake," she pointed to another winking constellation, "That is called The Wyvern. Note the collection of stars that look like outstretched wings, and the group that resembles a snarling snout," her delicate finger jabbed again towards the heavens, "And that is named The Lovers. See how those stars form the entwined arms and those others form the two faces?"

The rogue stopped her descriptions and turned towards Keina.

"There are many different constellations, but my favorite is known as The Angel."

The night elf's lips curled into a scowl.

"The Angel is a brilliant centerpiece to the evening sky," Vareesa continued, either blissfully unaware or willfully ignorant of the sentinel's wrathful face, "A gleaming figure of radiance amidst a darkening background. Out of all these stars, only The Angel catches my attention and earns my admiration. It is my sincere wish that The Angel appears only for me to gaze upon. Sadly, that is not the case, and I am forced to watch as others despoil his glory with their unworthy eyes," the blood elf continued the pleasant smile, but a injected a trace of venom into her next words, "I hope my explanation was not too difficult to follow."

"I am not in the habit of sharing men," the sin'dorei's face grew innocent at once over Keina's snarled response.

"I believe our discussion was about constellations, not men."

"Spit it out, assassin. You came here for a reason. Now tell me before you give me a reason to use this sword."

The night elf rested a hand on the pommel of her sheathed blade hanging from her belt. Vareesa's emerald eyes registered a brief flicker of jealousy, and her smile lost a bit of its luster. A satisfied smirk spread across Keina's own face at the almost undetectable change in the rogue's demeanor.

"That was my sword. I found it and gave it to him," gem green irises met moon-shaped pupils in hidden envy.

"And he gave it to me. Your point?"

The blood elf quashed the resentment that was threatening to shatter her carefully constructed façade. Her dazzling smile returned, albeit with difficulty, and the rampant jealousy in her eyes faded to be replaced by innocence once more.

"Oh nothing. I was merely stating the origins of such a fine weapon."

"Then we have nothing left to talk about," Keina swiveled on her heel and made to leave.

"Wait!" Vareesa's voice managed to sound both worried and confident at the same time.

She turned, hand still placed over her sword's pommel.

"What?" the sentinel asked coldly.

"The giant. You like him."

The assertion took her by surprise. She had not expected this brazen accusation from the sin'dorei. A faint hue of red began to stain her purple cheeks, and it was with much horror that Keina realized she was blushing.

"What's it to you?" the night elf snarled as she fought to keep her emotions in check, "Why are you so interested?"

"That's a fine question. Why should I be interested?" Vareesa's hips swayed voluptuously as she strode nearer, and despite herself, Keina found her eyes peeking at where they shouldn't, "A giant of a man has appeared before me, clad in armor my daggers cannot puncture, bearing weapons that are fit for gods. I have seen him effortlessly slay monsters that would have crushed a normal. I have watched him drive demons to their knees. Just recently, I have seen him kill three of the Scourge's most powerful minions. And in the time it took us to make our way from the Undercity to the Scarlet monastery, he has roused one thousand soldiers to his banner. You ask a fine question, my distant kin, but you ask the wrong question. Your question instead should be why would I not be interested?"

"I have said this before. I do not share men."

"Your claim is useless since you do not possess him in the first place."

"And you do?" the kaldorei struggled to maintain her calm at the image that had just transpired in her mind.

"No," the rogue sighed, almost longingly, "Not yet at least."

"Then there is no need for us to further this conversation."

"Oh, there is a need," Vareesa's smile faltered, and once more jealousy glimmered in her eyes, "Lest the one we both desire is wrested from our grasp."

Keina stiffened.

"Explain."

"You have not noticed this before? My, my, I begin to doubt your experience with the opposite sex," the blood elf chided her like one would to a child, causing her temper to rise at an exponential rate, "But then again you sentinels never did learn how to please your men in the right way. Tell me, is it true that your sisters still bind the males of your race to trees and assault them mercilessly until they are worn?"

"That is a wishful rumor," she grated through clenched teeth, "spread by ignorant humans with dirty minds."

"Of course," the sin'dorei nodded in fake sympathy, "I understand completely. I have always argued that no tree could possibly withstand the passions of two night elves in the middle of rutting season."

The urge to slap her rival nearly overwhelmed her senses. Nearly.

"Get. To. The. Point," her tone had grown low in apoplectic fury.

"If you insist," Vareesa sighed mockingly, her pupils twinkling with vindictive delight, "You should know by now, that the one we would both love to possess has a clear preference for humans. To a level of obsession even. While we were in Darnassus, this was not a problem, as next to no humans resided in your capitol city. But here, now, we are in the lands of men, where his favorite species resides, and there are many… how should I say this… opportunities… for the giant to escape his leash."

"You speak of him as though if you owned him," Keina's face was still taut with anger, but her voice had managed to reassert its normal timbre, "As though if he was a mere beast and you his master."

"Do not all men desire mistresses?" the rogue's beautiful countenance was the backdrop to a confident smile, displaying the blood elf's dainty lips to their fullest potential, "Men want to be leashed to an alluring woman. To kneel in subservience to a goddess they know is theirs. It is a universal fetish among their sex."

"I do not think the giant will be subservient to anybody, considering his temperament."

"Perhaps," the sin'dorei frowned slightly, "But we will see. In the meantime, there exists a definite possibility of him rejecting both you and me for someone else."

"Who?"

"What hole are you living in, woman?" Vareesa rolled her eyes in a show of disdain, "The former Inquisitor and that Argent healer of course! If you hadn't been staring at the object of your lust so much, you would have surely noticed."

"I have done no such thing," she grimaced. The words being said sounded defensive even to her own ears.

"Oh, stop it," Keina glanced up in surprise as her rival snapped at her, "There is nothing wrong with staring at a man you think is attractive. I do it all the time."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, it's not working," the sentinel captain replied, "The thought of me resembling any aspect of you is… horrifying to say the least."

"Hmph. Do not think this one mocking sentence has bested me. I could lash you to death with words long before you can formulate a response, sentinel," the blood elf sniffed derisively, "But that would be wasting my time. As I have said before, the two humans I have mentioned are a tangible threat to our dominance over the giant and-"

"I see no threat," spoke Keina curtly, interrupting Vareesa much to the former's annoyance, "the two have not shown any signs of wanting him."

"You really are an idiot, aren't you?" the rogue hissed in exasperation, "Whitemane has not touched him because she thinks him divine. Once that perception fades, and trust me it will, she will make her advances known. And Eva, the healer, has already gotten close to him. The human's jokes seem innocent, but she plots and schemes in her mind. She is a danger as well."

"You are paranoid," the kaldorei shook her head slowly in amazement, "Did you know that? You are paranoid. Extremely so."

"Paranoia is one way to describe caution. And caution has saved my life many times before."

"I hardly think caution is needed here when we are protected by our allies and the giant."

"Then you think wrong," the sin'dorei's lips curled in scorn, "The Crusaders want our blood and the Argent Dawn are too few to stop them should they become incensed. Only by the decree of the giant do we stand here conversing rather than splayed on a rack in some human dungeon with a torturer breathing down our necks."

Keina wanted to deny this, but knew in her heart the blood elf had told no lie. The crimson clad humans were a xenophobic bunch, and would not hesitate to do her harm had the god given them permission. The fact that Avarian had complimented her did not change the fact that the soldiers of the reformed Scarlet Guard hated her with a passion. She did not want to admit it, but the assassin was right. Caution was warranted here.

"So what are you suggesting?" she asked grumpily.

"An alliance," Vareesa replied smoothly, "between the two of us. That way we stand a better chance of tempting Avarian to our side."

"I was referring to the danger the Crusaders presented, not the giant," the thought of a pact between her and the blood elf disgusted Keina, and the tone of her voice showed her disgust.

"Have some sense, kaldorei! Think about something other than how many arrows you have left in your quiver! If the giant falls for us, we will no longer be at risk from the Scarlet soldiers! I believe the humans call this 'downing two birds with one stone' or something along those lines," the blood elf's green eyes sparkled with desire, and her next words were filled with eager lust, "Just think! A god who would do whatever we wished him to do! A thousand warriors following our commands through the man they worship, not knowing that it is us who control him! By Quel'Delar, we could even carve our own kingdom amidst this land and rule as queens!"

The night elf took a step back at this sudden outburst, alarm apparent on her features.

"You are scaring me," she said and meant it.

"Ambition scares the weak," Vareesa spoke confidently, "I, however, am in love with it."

"You are still scaring me."

"So you are weak. I thought as much. However, the offer still stands. Make what you will of it."

The sentinel commander bit her lip as she deliberated. There was much truth in the rogue's words. But to ally with a descendent of the Highborne... That in itself was something no upstanding night elf would ever do. Still, the situation was an unrelenting one, and out here surrounded by maddened Scarlet zealots, she would need as many friends as she could get.

"I accept then," Keina ignored the triumphant look the sin'dorei gave her, "But I will warn you that I do not plan to be a part of your schemes. If Avarian does respond to my advances, I will not adhere to your cruel plot and string him along like a puppeteer."

"Suit yourself. If all comes to worse, we can simply divide him between the two of us."

"Divide him?"

"Of course," the blood elf's face had developed a predatory look, and her voice sounded almost hungry in nature, "You being the paragon of virtue that you are, can take the upper half. I will be content with his lower half."

* * *

Night brought something else other than darkness. It brought cover for acts of treachery and betrayal.

Four figures dressed in the livery of the Scarlet Crusade lay away from their sleeping cohorts. Words were whispered back and forth, interrupted only by the footsteps of a patrolling sentry. A few minutes later, when the guard was past earshot, the hushed conversation would begin anew. Then the exchange ceased completely. An agreement had been reached. Three pairs of eyes stared at a fourth and the fourth blinked back in confirmation. When the sentry had gone a significant distance, a man-sized shape silently stood up and stole stealthily away into the darkness.

It was headed for the ruins of Andorhal.

* * *

Away from the ramshackle farmhouses and dwellings of Felstone Field, was a forest of dead trees. Withered branches swayed hauntingly from the eerie wind. Thick trunks of vulgar green sprouted from the soil, tainted irrecoverably by the disease. Gnarled roots broke from the ground in some places, as though if attempting to escape from the earth itself. No one ventured near this place. Not for years at least. The serenity of death had covered the area with its silent veil, and none wished to disturb it.

On this day, that serenity was broken.

In a clearing surrounded by slain woodlife, fifty men in steel hauberks knelt in reverence, their figures outlined by the light from a ring of planted torches. Their heads were unhelmeted, and their belts devoid of weapons. The plates of armor they once wore over their shirts of mail lay in neat piles beside every man. The suits of protection were joined by kite-shaped shields and crimson helms decorated with wings. Each assortment of gear was worth a small fortune, for they were the finest armor crafted by human hands. Said gear belonged to the Scarlet Champions, the mightiest warriors of the Scarlet Crusade, and it was fifty of their number that knelt in the alcove amid dead trees.

Herod made that number fifty-one.

The Champion of the Crusade was at the forefront of the formation of kneeling men, his head bowed, a fist clenched tight across his breast. The others mirrored his display, their faces directed towards the ground, hands over their chests. These were all former knights of the Silver Hand, disciplined soldiers of the Light whose valor as individuals were unquestionable. Each had earned his title by some great deed done that was deemed impossible by normal men. Each had walked on a dozen battlefields, slaying their foes through trained bladework and unwavering courage. Each was a veteran of the Scourge wars that brought Lordaeron from glory to ruin, and their hatred for those responsible eclipsed all others.

Now, these fifty men and Herod knelt in respect for a warrior greater than they.

The Iron Angel's gait was slow and methodical as he paced around the clearing. His white helm was tucked in the crook of one arm, revealing a stalwart face pale beyond what was humanly possible. Intelligent, cerulean irises regarded them sternly, as though if judging for any undesirable traits within the kneeling group. The angel would find none here, Herod was sure of it. Those that took knee in this alcove before the giant, far from the attention of their cohorts, were the best humanity had to offer on this world.

"Do you know who I am?" the question took them all by surprise. Heads craned towards the speaker in puzzlement. None answered.

"Do you know who I am?" the Iron Angel asked once more.

Of course they knew. They had all been there at the courtyard when the tale of the Emperor and the traitor, Horus, had been told. And though they had not been there for the first battle on Scourge soil, the tale regaled to them by those who were, was more than enough to convince them of the angel's might. The man ripped abominations apart with his bare hands, for Light's sake!

"Do I stand in the presence of great warriors, or silent mimes?" the seraph's face was unreadable, but there was a trace of amusement in his tone.

"Aye!" a man broke the stillness, "We know who you are!"

His passionate voice was swiftly followed by those of the rest of the Champions. The giant nodded at this show of approval, his lips twisting into a grim, satisfied smile.

"If you know who I am, then surely you must know my name," the angel spoke again.

This time, the silence was genuine. No one present knew his name. To them, the title of Iron Angel was sufficient enough. It had not occurred to them that the man they held so high in esteem possessed a mortal name like theirs.

"No?" the giant's steps halted completely, and his massive frame turned to regard them all, "Is it not rude to disregard the name of a warrior you revere?" the man's smile became grimmer, and caused a shiver of anticipation to crawl along their spines, "I will tell you then!"

The angel spread his arms wide, making his immense size appear even larger.

"I am called Avarian!" he boomed, "And I tell you this because you should know who will lead you into battle tomorrow!"

"Say the word sire! And we'll slay a thousand times our number of the enemy for the Emperor!" the shouted words belonged to the voice of the same man who had yelled out earlier. A chorus of likewise oaths was bellowed out, splitting the silence with hearty roars. The giant raised a palm in their direction, and the sudden surge of noise gradually dissipated.

"You are the finest warriors in ten hundred men," the words caused all those present to swell their chests in pride, "You are the most disciplined soldiers among your cohorts. You are the most courageous heroes within a thousand. You are the best of the best, and you will prove your worth to your fellows, to me, and to He on Terra. For tomorrow we will batter down the gates of Andorhal and purge all those found wanting within!"

Before a single phrase could be uttered from their mouths at this revelation, the angel continued on, his timbre heavyset and grating.

"I know your doubts and your misgivings. How can barely more than fifty men defeat a force twenty times larger? The answer is simple. Faith. Faith and new arms and armaments to deliver judgment to the blasphemous."

Figures clothed in elaborate robes emerged from the forest, each carrying heavy bundles wrapped in delicate fabrics. Doan and his apprentices, they realized. The mage and his students wore proud expressions as they set each bundle down by a kneeling Champion, until a covered package rested idly by every discarded suit of armor, mirroring the plates in size. With that done, the spellcasters gathered together behind the angel in a silent line, their eyes alight with excitement.

"Today you shed your past garments of war," Avarian spoke, and their ears strained to hear every syllable, "and begin anew as warriors dedicated to the Father of Mankind. No more will you be the Champions of the Crusade. You will be Champions of all Humanity! For you will become the Hammer, the right hand of the Emperor. You will become the implement of His Will. The mail about His fist. The tip of His spear. The edge of His sword. You will be His blade just as He is your armor and you will be His wrath just as He is your zeal. You will be the bane of His foes and the woes of the treacherous. Let none defy you. Let no heresy go unpunished. Let no enemy past your blades. This is my decree, and the decree of the Immortal Emperor. Follow it and be blessed. Ignore it and be damned."

The Iron Angel lifted his gauntlets, his voice growing in volume with each spoken word.

"Arise, warriors of the First Company and look to your new weapons and armor."

_

* * *

_

_Sabbat: Thank you! I don't plan to lose interest in this story anytime soon, so rest assured! That being said, I will have moments of laziness and my update rate will sometimes suffer as a result. But never will I abandon this story! Not when the Emperor still sits upon His Golden Throne!_

_CelticReaper: You asked for an update, well, here it is!_

_Salle1980: Not every female character I introduce will be interested in Avarian. Finnall most likely will stay out of the whole mess._

_Basikampfire: Frostmourne is an extremely potent weapon, as is Ashbringer. Frostmourne has the ability to steal souls as well as inflict instant death. It would most likely rank as a daemons sword in 40k terms. Ashbringer would probably be a holy weapon used by Living Saints._

_Thekilleregglord: I have already mentioned an Inquisitor before in this fic. Who knows? She might play a part. :P_

_Grey Knight Stern: The thing with the Legion of the Damned, is that they're technically an unknown to most of the Imperium. Most Space Marine chapters would probably have no idea they exist, since the appearance of the Legion is extremely rare._

_Rldragon: Well, Avarian is a Space Marine. He and other Astartes don't agree with the Imperial Faith of viewing the Emperor as a god. In all honesty, the Adeptus Astartes are probably the only ones who maintain a semblance of the Imperial Truth that was prevalent thousands of years before._

_Leafy8765: Orks will probably not be in this story. Once orks arrive, there will be bound to be ork spores, which means Azeroth will become a battleground for the boyz. And while that is entertaining, it won't be in this fic._

_FluffehPhear: The romance thing is hard to balance in this story, to tell the truth. I try very hard to make Avarian in character, which means he won't be interested in love and lovemaking. Of course, I plan for this to change somewhat, but don't expect any declarations of love in the next batch of chapters. A lot of my reviewers prefer Sally ever since I introduced her. We'll see where it leads. :P As for a SC themed crossover, it's a possibility, but only after I've completed this fic and the two sequels that follow it._

_The Amazing Chicken Dinner: Ripping off the Assault Cannon from a venerated machine such as a Land Speeder? That's heresy!_

_Raile21: The other ghost, Marlene Redpath to be specific, will appear later on._

_RokkitBoyz: You're just going to find out! *Evil laughter_

_Pinto: Well, the Farseer already admitted to one desirable trait of humanity's. Being an Eldar, she probably wouldn't admit another one._

_Night Hunter MGS: You're wondering about the ending eh? Well, that's about hundred chapters away so you'll just have to sit tight and hope my updates continue as normal! Lawl, I kid, I kid. Though I can't give you the exact ending, I will say that the conclusion will generally be positive (as positive things in 40k tend to get of course). Characters will die, but their deaths will not be in vain, I can assure you of that. As for Avarian and compassion… well, that's not exactly how he'd describe it as you will find out in this chapter. There's a reason why he acts this way, however. If you remember, Eva has said something has hardened the angel's heart. _

_Cormalin: He'll appear, but not now._

_Peanuckle: The Legion of the Damned are virtually unknown to the Imperium except for the Inquisition. In the instances they do arrive and save a group of Guardsmen/Astartes, they disappear immediately after, which leaves the soldiers they face generally going: "wtf"_

_Huitt1989: Thanks!_

_TheEmperorProtects: Thank you! The majority of the information I gather is from the Black Library novels (been reading them since I was fourteen and never quite stopped). The things I don't know I gather from Lexicanum, and that website has been very helpful in writing this story. And yes, the warriors the ghost could see but nobody else can were the Legion of the Damned._

_Starspawn07: Eh, the name thing is my fault mainly. Couldn't think up of good Eldar names that didn't end with "ith". :P_

_Timewatch: Thank you!_

_NamesaSecret: Would you like some cake?_

_Xynth: The half-elf isn't an OC. She's actually quite important lore-wise. Look her up on WoWwiki. As for Avarian's behavioral patterns, you'll see why he acts this way in this chapter. The Legion of the Damned were noticed by the ghost, but not by the living. _

_Overdrive1: Two different ghosts my friend. The one Avarian met is called Janice Felstone. The other is Marlene Redpath. Both give you quests in WoW. _


	42. Upon the Bloodstained Fields

**Author's Note: Sorry 'bout the long update, but college has started, and alas, I do not have the time I need to write quick chapters. Suffice to say, the chapters after this one will take longer to update, but rest assured, I have not given up on this fic or planning to.**

Chapter 41

Araj the Summoner did not like to be wrong. The term was alien to him, and elicited a feeling of revulsion from deep within his empty body each time it was mentioned. Even the thought of making a mistake made the lich disgusted with himself and infuriated with others. He was perfection, molded into the likeness of the undeath, lord of ten thousand hosts. Flawless beings could never be wrong. Yet, the evidence was here, right before his spectral eyes, kneeling in submission. Had he possessed the organs of his old fleshy body, the Summoner's throat would be filling with bile right now. Instead, his skinless visage maintained its indifferent mask, though he was sure the death knight that stood beside him could see past his carefully constructed facade.

Araj levitated closer to the prostrated form of the warrior. He noted the red and white tabard of the Crusade draped over the kneeling figure and the symbol of the Scarlet Leaf tattooed upon the man's cheek. An enemy, many of his minions would deduce. An enemy to attack and kill on sight. It was a miracle that no roving band of ghouls had found him first. But then again, this man had shown the Sign hidden in his skin, and no intelligent being under Scourge control would touch him as a result.

The lich's jaws opened, exhaling a breath of chilling frost.

"Who do you belong to, spy?"

The man bowed his head, unwilling to look into ghostly eyes of his superior.

"I belong to Ras Frostwhisper, lord."

Ah. Frostwhisper. Araj fought down the urge to split the kneeling cultist in two with an ice lance. Frostwhisper was the reason why he so hated the word 'wrong'. This man kneeling before him was an acolyte under the sway of his rival in Scholomance. This man was a servant to the one who had taken the glorious title of Headmaster away from him. The temptation to destroy this informant of his competitor's was a strong one, and it took all the restraint he possessed to not pierce the man with spears of frost then and there.

"The information you bring to me is… interesting, to say the least," the words that were uttered from his fleshless mouth were forced and grating to hear, "I will see you rewarded for this."

The man inclined his head dutifully, but Araj caught a flash of greed in his eyes.

"Thank you, lord lich. I live only to serve the Lich King."

"See?" said Vauron the death knight, the triumphant smirk upon his lips only adding to the Summoner's disgust, "This one gets it."

Araj ignored him, and gazed down at the cultist who in turn cringed, sensing an interrogation about to begin. He was right.

"If what you say is true, spy, that an army marches for my city's gates, fully intending to visit ruin and devastation to this magnificent bastion of our lord's might, surely there might have been portents beforehand? A military force simply does not materialize out of nowhere and begin marching the day they are formed. There should have been months of planning in advance and weeks of gathering supplies. However, by your account, this ragtag army that threatens us was cobbled together in merely a day. How is this possible? Even the forces under Galvar Pureblood required days of preparation. What you state is most perplexing as it is most implausible. Tell me how this army that is to be my doom could be formed so quickly."

The disguised acolyte pressed his forehead into the ground as he spoke, and a trace of satisfaction shivered in the lich's skeletal breast at the fear in the man's voice. Inaccurate reportings were not tolerated by those the spies served, and he was well within his rights to kill this informant should he think there were falsehoods in the story. It was Araj's duty to ensure the work of Scourge servants are either rewarded or punished judging from their results. That, and a chance to kill one of Frostwhisper's minions did not come regularly.

"My lord," began the cultist, his tone wavering with apprehension, "High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane ordered the detached parts of her force to reform at The Bulwark. Every able-bodied warrior from the outposts in Tirisfal marched to the designated place, including the militia and civilians at Solliden Farmstead. From there, they invaded your realms, sire."

"And they did this in one day? In one day? Where were their plans? Their goals? Their targets? Did the entirety of the Tirisfal humans decide simply that, 'Today we're going for a stroll in the Plaguelands! Let's see who'll come with us!' Do not mistake me for a fool, spy, lest you believe your life to be worthless."

"I wouldn't dare, my liege," sputtered the man on his knees, "But what I have said is the truth! I have seen it with my own eyes, I swear!"

The Summoner ignored the cultist's stammering and pressed on.

"This High Inquisitor, this Whitemane. Do we not have our agents entrenched near her side? If such a potent leader exists with the ranks of our enemies, one who can rouse an entire army to do her bidding in a single day, why have we not heard of her?"

"I am surprised at your ignorance, skeleton," came the sardonic tone of Vauron, "Whitemane was given leadership of the Tirisfal faction of the Crusade long ago. She is tasked with reclaiming the lands around the Undercity from the Forsaken as well as from the farmsteads that belong to us. So far she has succeeded admirably in maintaining beachheads against our minions in four areas," the death knight's smirk turned into a dismissive leer with his next words, "You should know this, Araj. You liches are supposedly the brains behind the operation after all."

"I need not concern myself with cockroaches at my feet, death knight. However, I believe dealing with such petty foes is the custom of those from Acherus."

The fallen templar snarled and gripped tight the haft of his spiked mace. Araj ignored him. Let the fool wallow in the implied insult. He had better things to do.

"Answer my questions, servant," the breath of hoarfrost that misted from the lich's jaws caused the man to shiver from both the cold and fright.

"High Inquisitor Whitemane is very suspicious of outsiders, my lord. Those that garrison the Scarlet Monastery do not take kindly to strangers, even other humans, from entering their grounds. We could not infiltrate into their ranks without risking our hidden identities. And it was not her who stirred the Crusaders into this expedition."

"Oh? Then who was it?"

The man gulped visibly before replying.

"The angel, sire."

"The angel," Araj repeated, incredulous, "The angel. Am I getting this right? The Tirisfal Crusaders are lead by some divine being of the Light? Tell me, does it have pinions of lofty feathers? Or a halo of gold above its head? Does it walk past the sick and diseased curing them with a touch of its fingers? Idiot buffoon! You think I will believe this outlandish story of yours?"

The Damned infiltrator groveled further, his red and white garments beginning to stain with smudges of dirt.

"I would not dare to lie to you my lord! What I say is the truth! He is not what you describe, but still the Crusaders call him the Iron Angel and revere him as a saint! They think he is their salvation!"

"And pray tell me," the Summoner hissed in disdain, "how did this 'Iron Angel' suddenly appear? Did he just spring up from the ground like a sprout of grass? Did he fall from one of the dead trees like a ripe fruit? And where was this 'saint' when Lordaeron fell? If the humans believe this angel is their deliverance, then he came too late."

"I do not know great lich. My fellows and I have only been inside the Monastery once, and that was when the Crusaders first arrived in Tirisfal. The angel could have arrived anytime between then and now."

"This angel," interrupted Vauron, his irises gleaming with eagerness, "What is he like? A warrior? Or one of those useless priest types?"

"He is a warrior without peer, sir knight," the acolyte bobbed his head in reply, "And one I have not seen the likes of for a long while."

The death knight closed his eyes and an almost longing sigh came from the y-shaped visor of his helm.

"A worthy enemy at last," he breathed, causing a flicker of annoyance to pass through Araj's mind.

"And this army. The one that killed two thousand of my minions. What can you tell me about it?" the lich questioned, impatient to get back to the topic at hand.

"It is the entirety of those Crusaders that still exist in Tirisfal, my liege. Those from Nightmare Vale, the two Crusader Outposts, Solliden's Farmstead and the cavalry that serve as couriers. All told, they have near three thousand people in all, of which one thousand are soldiers."

The Summoner laughed. From his fleshless mouth, evil cackling mirth issued, dry and sounding of crinkling paper. The cultist winced from his position on the floor and dared to look up. Vauron's gloved fingers squeezed the grip of his morning star, his eyes narrowed hatefully at the source of the malevolent laughter. Even Brutus was taken back, and stared in surprise at his master's floating form.

"One thousand?" Araj spoke in the midst of his mad glee, "That is what they send against the might of Andorhal? Am I hearing you correctly, spy? They march against ten thousand with ten times less that number?"

"Of that one thousand, only eight hundred are line troops," the infiltrator confirmed, "the others are militia drawn from the farmstead."

"This is a jest," wheezed the lich, still laughing, "A joke being played upon us by the humans. It must be. They march upon this city to besiege it with a pittance of the number that is truly required. Eight hundred? They would need ten times that number to pose a threat to my domain, and ten times more to take Andorhal from my grip. Where are their siege machines? Their cannons? Their war ladders? Do they intend to mill about the walls while we sit safe behind them?"

"They do not have anything for a siege, lord. I do not know if the Iron Angel intends for the civilians to dismantle their wagon train and use the materials to forge the machines necessary to break down the battlements."

"They even brought a wagon train filled with noncombatants! Stop with the information, spy! I think I might laugh myself to death if you continue to entertain me with more details about this 'army'."

"You are being overconfident again," Vauron growled, his tone filled with disapproval, "Lest we forget, this army destroyed one of our own two times its size. A greater operation is at stake here. We must not allow hubris to cloud our judgment."

Seeing the lich still in the throes of his own amusement, the death knight shook his head in remonstration before turning to regard the still kneeling cultist.

"How did this force of inconsequential size manage to defeat the zombies and ghouls from the fields?" the fallen knight asked, "Fodder those minions were, but the Cauldron Lord was with them, and capable of reanimating those that have fallen. Even if the Crusaders had won, they should have been too badly mauled to continue this invasion. Yet, what my Dark Riders discovered was all twenty hundred Scourge piled in heaps and burned beyond recognition. We found the remains of Razarch not far off, and the corpses of three flesh golems. Explain this."

"The angel sire. It was the angel," the man answered, "It was he who devised the plan to lure the most esteemed Cauldron Lord from the Writhing Haunt."

Vauron snorted. He eyed the hovering skeletal figure next to him with a trace of smugness.

"Your subordinates are not worth the effort to raise them from the grave, lich. Razarch was imbecilic to be fooled in such a simple manner. Your confidence in him along with the rest of your lieutenants is misplaced."

"My confidence in my subordinates is none of your concern, sir knight," hissed Araj, freshly recovered from his bout of laughter, "But I will have you know that those who guard the plague cauldrons are the very best within our ranks. Razarch would not have followed if he thought he could not gain a victory. In fact, I believe the conflict was hardly in the Crusaders' favor," he glared contemptuously at the acolyte, as though if daring the cultist to prove him wrong, "Come spy. Tell me I am right. Continue with your explanation."

"My lord…" the man squirmed, his face solely focused on the ground, "the casualties the Crusaders suffered were about… three dozen."

Silence. It was broken by Vauron's booming laughter. The death knight clutched at his side with one hand, the other using his war mace for support. Unlike the rasping mirth of the lich, his was loud and raucous, almost human-like. Except for the spectral quality that was prevalent in all of his kind's voices.

"It takes two thousand of your servants to slay thrice times a dozen? The inferior quality of your minions never ceases to astonish me," the fallen templar grinned unmercifully, "No wonder Ras Frostwhisper was elected to take your place as Headmaster of Scholomance."

Araj clenched his teeth tightly. This slight against him would have meant the death of the slanderer under any other circumstance. But this slanderer was one of Darion's ilk, and one of the favored champions of the Lich King. He could not kill him without a proper reason. But if the knight thought himself safe from retribution, he would be in for a surprise.

"Our own blades killed half a score, lord," continued the spy, "We slew the Crusaders in front of us to cause a break in the line. Using the gaps we made in the human ranks, the zombies managed to penetrate the Scarlet formation and dragged some of their warriors down."

"Your actions did not betray you?" this from Brutus. The Summoner's favorite henchman had been quiet throughout the interrogation. When he spoke, his voice was like the hissing tongue of a serpent, and caused the Damned infiltrator to shudder slightly.

"The battle was too hectic. Those that fought by our side were too focused on the undead assailing the front ranks. They believed the Crusaders that fell to our swords were slain by the zombies."

"You will be rewarded for this," Vauron growled, "Perhaps even be granted the transcendence into the true undeath."

Not likely, thought Araj. Not if he had anything to do with it.

"Oh thank you, most magnanimous lord," the man pressed his forehead into the soil in abasement, his tone wavering with joy, "Thank you!"

"You are dismissed," the lich flung a skeletal arm in the direction where the cultist had came, "Go back to the Crusaders. However, make sure to spread news of our coming. Make sure fear spreads through their army."

The cultist nodded eagerly, and was off, sprinting towards the entrance of Andorhal, a lone shape of bright colors dashing through the black and grey of a ruined city. The Summoner watched the figure gradually growing smaller and smaller until a row of burned out buildings obstructed his view. Turning, he met the still amused stare of the death knight.

"I was right," Vauron sneered, "There is another army of the Scarlet fools marching towards us."

"So you are," replied Araj coolly, "the question remains though, as to what we should do in regards to this new development."

"Does that even need to be asked?" came the fallen knight's petulant response, "We attack and destroy this little army of theirs before the sun rises. Crush them utterly and without remorse. 'Tis the Scourge way."

"And I expect you'll want to be at the forefront of the force that sallies out?"

"Of course. Long has my mace sat idle and listless by my side. Now I have a chance to allow my weapon to drink deep the crimson ichor of the living," behind his horned helm, Vauron licked his lips with relish, "It would a waste not to grasp this opportunity. I will lead my Dark Riders and we will be the ones to first to do battle with the humans."

"Very well then. I will have half of my servants accompany you, under the command of Brutus," the Summoner sounded earnest, almost sincere.

"Half? That is five thousand," the death knight raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"Yes. And to that, I will add all the abominations under my authority."

The templar's eyes grew suspicious at once.

"Why are you so suddenly willing to commit your minions when hours ago you all but laughed at my proposal?"

"Because as you have said before, we have a greater duty to perform. To ensure that the Scarlet force under Galvar will never arrive at Tyr's Hand. Though I did not believe you at first, I assure you, I am not blind to the evidence before me. It is my hope we can set aside our… differences… to achieve this duty for the Lich King."

Vauron grinned, displaying a set of perfect teeth preserved by the undeath through the slit in his helm.

"I knew you would see it my way. Let us do away with our mutual disagreements then. I will gather my Riders immediately and we will attack the Crusaders while they are still sluggish and lethargic from sleep. The slaughter will be glorious!"

The risen templar turned on his heel, his cloak billowing out behind him as he marched excitedly away. A curt order from the knight and one of his armored warriors guided a pair of snorting black steeds from a decrepit structure that served as an impromptu stable. Both men mounted swiftly and were off, galloping towards the quarter of the city Vauron had chosen for his Riders to stay.

"Should I prepare the minions, sire?" Brutus asked his master, a questioning look plastered over his features.

"Yes. Yes. Do that, but do it later. The sun is not even close to rising," Araj gave the two horsemen a fleeting glance, his jaws parting in a wicked grin, "I have some amendments to add to the death knight's attack plan. Listen closely, my favored servant, for if this succeeds, the Lich King will reward us in the most lavish of ways."

* * *

When morning came, utter chaos reigned in the Scarlet encampment.

A Crusader had bolted into the camp, rousing sleeping civilians and soldiers alike with his shouts of warning. The man told of the iron gates of Andorhal opening, and disgorging forth a mass of undead creatures eager to shed blood. They were coming here, now, in their thousands, and would soon arrive at Felstone Field in force to sate their need for living flesh.

Panic ensued.

Men and women took flight towards their wagons, infants and belongings cradled in their arms. Fathers hastily harnessed the pack animals that pulled their carts, be they horse or steer, cursing and swearing as they worked frenziedly to loop bridles over the still drowsy beasts. Hysterical mothers comforted frightened children, begging their young to behave and be silent, lest they attract the attentions of the Scourge and doom them all. Families that had known each other for years suddenly began to bicker and argue, sparking minor confrontations as people lost patience with one another in their desperate urge to flee.

Crimson clad soldiers ran forward, their tabards flipping about their bodies as they rushed to restore order. Most were still half-asleep. They rubbed tears of drowsiness from their eyes as they half-ran, half-stumbled towards the terrified civilians, placating words coming from dry mouths. Together, they formed a thin line around the wagon train, urging quiet and calm to a panicked populace. None listened.

Instead, the soldiers became the target for the civilians' ire. Desperate to escape the incoming undead, men and women tussled with the cordon of Crusaders, beating at plate cuirasses and mail hauberks indiscriminately with their bare fists. Surprised at this frenzied outburst, the ring of warriors bent back, assailed by the very people they were supposed to protect.

Tempers were quick to fray.

A soldier was shoved to the ground by angry hands, and his comrades drew their blades from their scabbards in response. A great cry went up from the civilians at this act.

"Betrayal!" some shouted in hate, the cold touch of fear clouding their judgment, "The Scarlet Crusade have turned on us!"

"Treachery!" others yelled and shook their fists, "We are trapped here! Trapped by those we once trusted! Death to the traitors!"

"Shame! Shame on you all!" women held their infants towards the Crusaders, presenting squirming babes to the nonplussed warriors, demanding passage with the innocent flesh of their children, "Allow us a way out, damn you!"

Had cooler heads prevailed, then they would have realized the warrior who had brought the ill tidings was not a scout under Captain Elisa's command. He had no horse to carry him and could not have outrun a rampaging force of Scourge with only his legs. They would have further noticed the man's tabard and thighs were tinged with smudges of dirt, as though if he had been kneeling on the earth for some time. These things were suspicious and warranted further investigation. Sadly, there existed no cooler heads in this case, and both the ranks of soldiers and the mob of civilians continued their riotous scuffling.

They did not notice the procession of beings that made for them.

An armored giant marched towards the mayhem, the joints of his war plate snarling with each movement. The false-eyes of his ivory helm glinted in the dawning sun's light; two tear shaped rubies gleaming from a backdrop of white metal. A fat-barreled gun was locked to his hip, and a sword with spikes for an edge was clutched in his resolute fist. A small procession of men and women followed him, their well-crafted armor and weapons proclaiming them as the captains and leaders of the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal.

Wearing a tight lipped scowl across her striking face, was High Inquisitor Whitemane, now Commissar. She glared at source of the infighting, willing them to stop with the strength of her stare. Alas that no one took notice. After her came Vachon and Melrache, blades drawn and ready for violence. Arcanist Doan walked regally beside the two captains, his robes swaying in the light breeze and his head held high. Elisa Pureblade followed, her gait sure and quick. A sword was in her fist as well, but she looked unhappy to use it. Next to the cavalry commander was Captain Rhiana, her helm held in the crook of her arm. Solliden was next, his worn battle dress a startling contrast to immaculate uniforms of his fellow officers. Perrine strode alongside the haggard farmer turned warrior, his baleful gaze focused entirely on the back of the giant they trailed. Last to come was Vishas, the former torturer having put aside his tools in favor of a short sword and a buckler.

Together, the procession of officers and their massive leader halted before the unruly scene. They made no sound as they stood and stared at the rioting civilians.

One by one, the panicked peasants saw the commanders of the Crusade arranged before them, and their shouts gradually quieted down. Men scooted back, sheepish looks cast upon their faces as they realized what foolishness they had just been a part of. Women held back their infants, the earlier frenzy that had pushed them to try and force the line of warriors back having all but dissipated. The soldiers relaxed their postures and pulled up those who had fallen to the ground in the chaotic struggle. The cacophony of noise soon died, all save the crying of children who were still gripped in the throes of fear. Their cries were cut off by a grating, metallic voice.

"Finished?" the Iron Angel asked mildly, as though if watching civilized men brawl with one another was a common day occurrence, "Are you done with this scrabbling, or should I give you more time to vent your frustrations?"

Shame glued mouths tight together and prevented them from speaking.

"No? So soon?" the giant's tone sounded strangely reassuring, "Throne's Blood, this is a poor showing. Why, when my brothers and I grew angry and spiteful, we would go into the training chambers within our battle barge and spar for hours at a time. Close and personal combat. To the first drop of blood. Glorious times, those," a smile was laced in his words, "Come, good people. Show me your aptitude in melee. Continue this sport so that I may see for myself the strength in your arms. I promise no retribution will befall you."

None took the angel up on his offer.

"What is this? Surely, the anger in your blood has not vanished?" the armored behemoth spread his thick arms wide in a gesture of surprise, "Where are the shouts of betrayal that once came from this crowd? The accusations of treachery? Where has all of this gone? Wait. I know. It's me isn't it? You are unwilling to fight in my presence. Very well. I shall turn and you can recommence your quarrels."

The giant swiveled on his heel, his broad back and the bulky metal pack it carried facing the mass of people. A moment of near-silence reigned, the only sound being the harsh thrumming coming from the angel's massive armor.

"Are they fighting yet?" he asked to the slight figure by his side.

"No," admitted Commissar Whitemane, her features refusing to relax from its scowling mask, "They are not."

The colossal plated form turned back, a full head and shoulders taller than the Scarlet officers standing belligerently beside him. He gestured with his toothed-saw blade, and all those present winced slightly as the deadly sword carved through the air.

"Still no raging conflict to be had," the giant's tone had grown lower and began to fill with disgust at each passing word, "This perplexes me greatly. What man in the grips of wrath would hesitate on inflicting harm to his neighbor? What man in the depths of his fury would abstain from damaging the man next to him? I cannot understand this… unless… unless it was not anger that moved your hand… but fear."

At once, the angel's voice grew cold and bitter.

"Fear. The bane of mankind. I can sense it emanating from each and every one of you."

He advanced towards the silent civilians, his trunk-like legs stomping into the ground and displacing clouds of dirt with each step. Men and women shrank back as the Iron Angel neared, and many averted their eyes from his accusing glare. Even the soldiers still formed in a cordon around the populace became uneasy, casting nervous glances over their shoulders at the approaching behemoth.

The giant halted, his frame towering above the crowd and the thin line of Crusaders. When he next spoke, his timbre was curiously neutral.

"I hear there is a place not far from here, a place of safety and sanctuary. There are thick and stalwart walls to hide behind and many hundreds of soldiers willing to die to defend it. It is called Hearthglen, and it is the Scarlet Crusade's mightiest bastion within the Plaguelands. Is all of this true?"

Heads nodded in confirmation, and a spark of hope lightened in many hearts. Perhaps they would not have to die in this miserable field after all. Perhaps the angel would order Hearthglen to be their next destination. The massive walls of the fortified town have proven to be invulnerable to Scourge attacks in the past, and were constantly maintained by those who resided behind them. Whoever had told the angel of Hearthglen had been right. It was a place of safety within these defiled lands.

"I hear also, that this valued place of shelter is the home to many a brave knight, and their skills at arms have prevented hordes of monstrosities from overwhelming these realms. Is this true as well?"

"Aye! It is!" someone shouted from within the crowd, "Their courage and valor are legendary! We cannot hope to match their bravery!"

"We cannot hope to match their bravery," the giant repeated, his tone musing and contemplative, "That is a grave statement to claim," he pointed to the speaker with the tip of his sword and the throng parted to reveal a trembling man in his thirties, "What is your name, human?"

"Nylan, sire," the man whispered through quivering lips.

"Kneel, Nylan," a wave of apprehension spread throughout the crowd at the angel's words. Was this retribution? Was the speaker going to be punished for their earlier mutiny? Many wanted to turn away, but continued to look on, morbid fascination locking their heads in place.

Nylan complied, his knees sinking into dirt, his body rigid with dread.

"I bequeath to you the title of those you venerate," the angel spoke, "Rise, a knight."

The man blinked in confusion but obeyed the order. His eyes stared up at the giant's ivory faceplate as he stood back up.

"Do you feel any different, Nylan? Any changes within your body with this new title I have bestowed upon you?"

He shook his head no.

"You do not feel courage welling up within your breast? No fervent desire to fight the foes of the Emperor?"

"No, sire," Nylan swallowed nervously.

The Iron Angel nodded before gesturing at another within the throng with his blade.

"You. What is your name?"

The woman stiffened as though if struck, and hesitated before answering.

"I am called Sarah, my liege."

"Kneel," the giant commanded.

She did as told, and sank to one knee.

"Rise, a knight."

Her gaze is returned by the angel's eye visors, and she shuddered slightly as they seemingly peered into her very being.

"Sarah. Has bravery found its way into your heart? Does your soul cry out for vengeance and retribution against the enemies of man?"

"I… I cannot say it does, lord."

The giant said nothing and moved on, his weapon pointing towards another in the mass.

"You. Your name."

A boy, not yet sixteen, answered with awe in his voice.

"Reynold. My name is Reynold," his parents behind him shot fearful glances in each other's direction, but dared not to respond.

"Kneel."

The boy complied and knelt with wonder in his eyes.

"Rise, a knight."

He surged back up, lanky legs carrying him back to his full height.

"Has this title granted you fresh valor within your chest, Reynold? Do you ache and lust for war waged in His name?"

"I want to fight the Scourge sire," the adolescent answered eagerly, "but I've always wanted to."

The Iron Angel nodded again, and his sword swept to encompass all in its path.

"All of you," the giant grated, "Kneel."

The entire crowd, two thousand men, women, and children in all, sank to their knees. The soldiers that formed the cordon around the throng hesitated, before following suit, planting their blades tip first into the soil and resting their foreheads on steel pommels. Even the Crusader officers, Whitemane, Vachon, Doan, Melrache, and the others dropped to their knees in reverence.

"Rise, as knights," the angel boomed.

The civilians rose, their countenances devoid now of anxiety and fear. A second later and the red clad forms of the Crusaders joined them, rising on confident legs.

"Is there any difference? Any change within you? Does courage well within your breast? Does bravery beat in your heart? Does valor flow through your veins? Are you now willing to hold a sword instead of a rake? Have you suddenly become warriors instead of farmers?"

The responses were varied but the same. Some shook their heads in denial. Others whispered 'no' through their lips. They felt no change within their bodies.

"Courage," said the giant softly, "comes from the heart," an armored digit tapped lightly against his breastplate, "not from a title."

He strode slowly into the packed mass of people, the line of soldiers parting hastily to let him through. His immense frame dwarfed those who gazed up at him, throwing a black shadow across the ground. The angel spoke as he walked, his tone strong and resolute.

"There is no such thing as inherited courage. No such thing as ancestral bravery. Just because a man has been given a title of honor, does not mean he becomes braver. Courage does not work that way. It hides deep within the core of each one of us, and not even the most grand sounding of names will draw it out."

The giant's gait slowed as he neared the center of the crowd. The center of two thousand men and women whose eyes and ears strained to follow his every action.

"Courage is something that is ingrained within our race. It was born with us on the sacred ground of Holy Terra and has been our guide ever since. Every step our species took was watched by courage. Every advancement we made for ourselves was made possible because courage was at the helm. When man first saw fire and the fury it could unleash upon the unwary, it was courage that directed him to harness the might of flame. When man looked into the skies and saw the graceful flight of birds, it was courage that urged him to construct the flying machines of old. And when man looked beyond the skies and into the cold void of space, it was courage that allowed him to build the starships that could traverse the universe. Courage is the fire that beats within all of us. But if courage is fire, then fear is the winter chill."

"Fear is the anathema of courage. It twists the minds of men and instills them with the devilish trait of selfishness. Yet for all of its evil, fear is still a part of what we are. Fear was there as well when mankind stepped from the caves of its past, and it has guided our path into the future just as much as courage. To be afraid is to be human, and there is nothing wrong with that. Do not be ashamed when your heart beats faster at the foe's approach. Do not be ashamed when you feel the need to run from the enemy. There is no crime in being afraid. It is only when you give in to your fears, when you let it become your master and lead you down the dark path of cowardice, do you deserve to be punished."

The angel pointed to the morning sky with his free hand, and many pairs of eyes followed to stare into the heavens.

"The Imperium of Man spans the universe. It is the mightiest realm of humanity ever to exist. A million and more worlds belong to this empire, a million and more planets where the iron will of our race holds sway. These are the things the High Lords of Terra, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Inquisition would want you to believe. But do not let these grandiose words persuade you. There is an ugly side to all of this. Lies and half-truths hidden within the truth itself."

A black gauntlet was clenched tightly together, armored fingers closing to form an unyielding fist.

"We are dying," the giant growls softly, "Our race. Our species is dying."

Tense silence greeted this declaration. No one knew how to respond to this startling claim.

"Across our realms, thousands of worlds are besieged by our foes, enemies whose only wish is to see us crushed and destroyed. Our Imperium, our empire, exists only because men and women like you shed their lifeblood to preserve it. Our domains are safe because uncountable lives are lost in their defense. Our dominion over this universe is preserved with the blood of heroes. This is how we survive. This is how we live. One day of peace is bought with a lifetime of bloodshed. The Great Bell of Terra tolls for the loss of those heroes known and loved by the Imperium. Were it to toll for the loss of the countless unsung heroes of humanity, then it would have long tolled itself hoarse."

"Do you think that those who would defend this empire of men do so with courage in their hearts? Do you think those Guardsmen that are the thin line of resistance against our enemies have courage abound within their chests? No. They fear just as you do. They are afraid just like you are. Even the Guard's most hardened of veterans still grip tight their lasguns when battle draws near. It is not courage that propels them to defy the horrors of the galaxy. It is fear. Terror forces them to fight, to die. But their fear is different from yours. Their fear is real and justified. Their fear is the fear of failure."

The angel's metal visage turned to regard them all. His gaze was stern and severe, yet this time, no one looked away.

"Failure," he snarled, "is a heinous thought. It is an atrocious thought, and one that good men should not have to think. Nevertheless, it is real and something we must deal with… Failure means our extinction. If we are to fail, then our civilization will cease to exist. All that we have built with sweat and blood through these long millennia would have been for naught. Our empire will crumble. Our worlds will burn. Our people will die. This is the truth. Pure and unadulterated. And this is why those Guardsmen on countless worlds will fight to the death against out foes. They know in their hearts that if they were to fail in their task, then another world will fall, and the Imperium would grow even weaker. This cannot be allowed. This must not be allowed."

"I know what you are afraid of. You are frightened of death. You are frightened for you husbands and wives, for your sons and daughters. These are legitimate fears. They are logical fears. But these fears are inconsequential in scale to the fear of failure. What does death matter when the entire human race teeters at the brink of destruction? What are the lives of your loved ones worth when the lives of all humanity are in doubt? Failure means the end of our species, and the fear of its realization is what drives us to wage war against all who would threaten our race."

"Courage cannot exist without fear," the giant all but whispered, his tone still harsh yet filled with an unusual softness, "Courage. Bravery. Valor. All of these words would not be defined if there was no fear in the hearts of men. It is through fear that mortal men are inspired to feats of courage. And that is what makes our race great. That even in our fear, we can find the courage needed to prevail."

His arm swept up, fingers pointing to a far-away city and the evils that lay within.

"From a city that once was yours, comes a tide of ravenous dead. You think these beasts will be your doom. I think otherwise. Mankind has been threatened by doom all too many times in our long history, and each time it is those who have threaten us that lie cold and motionless on the battlefield, not us. What is this Scourge compared to the enemies we have vanquished in these ten thousand years? What is this army of the dead compared to all those foes in our past that menaced us with extinction? There is nothing special about them. Nothing worth noting. They are our enemies. They are the foes we must destroy to survive. It is that simple. Another wave of blasphemy assails the sacred walls of humanity. And by the Immortal Emperor, they _will_ be repelled.

Thick, snarling sounds came from the giant's ivory faceplate. It took them a while to realize he was laughing.

"Crusaders! People of Lordaeron! Look to the fields that once fed your kingdom and see the enemy for what they truly are! Are you all as insulted as I am? This is what they send against us? This is what they think will destroy a race that has mastered the stars to their command? Corpse-beggars and mindless automatons? Fleshless skeletons and putrefied cadavers? Do they truly believe these scum, these vermin, will batter down the gates of mankind? Do they truly think that ten thousand years of defiance against the horrors of the galaxy will crumble at the sight of mere corpses? What foolish foes we must fight!"

"Already we have ended the blasphemies of two thousand such creatures! Piled their bodies high in the pyres of victory! You have seen for yourselves how easily they are felled by forged steel! You have seen for yourselves how easily they collapse before our defiance! Ask yourselves how can you flee from such pitiful enemies? Ask yourselves how can you run when our race has stood proud for ten millenia against legions of enemies much more potent? There is nothing to fear from these honorless filth and degraded scum! Only the fear of failure!"

The angel turned towards the direction of distant Andorhal, his voice a clarion call to battle and war.

"Come heathen dogs! Come mindless slaves! Come and be crushed under the iron heel of man! Come and die in blood and fire! The Emperor is with us and we are invincible! Come in your thousands! Come in the hundreds of thousands! We are here waiting for you! Our sword blades hunger for your blood! Our faith cries out to be tested! For ten thousand years we have stood defiant! Stood proud! And for ten thousand more will we do the same! We are humanity! The Chosen of the Emperor! The masters of the universe! And as long as there are still stars in the sky, we will fight! We will struggle! We will survive!"

The giant raised high a clenched fist. His words were contagious. His actions, even more so. Three thousand men and women roared their approval, and punched exultant arms towards the heavens.

"NO RETREAT!" the Iron Angel boomed.

"_NO RETREAT!"_ soldiers and civilians alike shouted together as one.

"NO SURRENDER!" he bellowed, his stentorian tone reaching each and everyone within the crowd.

"_NO SURRENDER!"_ they cried out, louder than before, more zealous than before.

"NO FEAR!" his roar was fierce, and demanded undying loyalty from all those who heard him.

_"NO FEAR!"_ they answered back, their voices strong and without doubt.

* * *

"A fine speech, sire," I hear Melrache say, "A fine speech worthy of this last stand."

I turn to regard him, my helm's visor implanting a crosshair on his darkly-complexioned features.

"You think this will be our end?" the officer does not flinch from my question. His smile does, however, grow wider.

"If not for all of us, then for most of us."

"That is a strange way of thinking," I grunt.

The man nods at this before replying.

"Yes, but it is a way of thinking our order has grown used to these past years."

I do not respond and instead swivel my gaze to see those that surround me. Whitemane is the first to meet my glare, her face utterly devoid of doubt. The fires of faith blazes within her veins, and once more I am reminded of a certain Canoness. Vachon and Melrache stand side by side, different as night and day, yet the bonds of brotherhood are the strongest in these two. Captain Rhiana, fair and average of build, and behind her, Solliden, the farmer that should have been a soldier. The Houndmaster looks at me, as does his prized dogs, sitting by his feet and drooling saliva from their panting tongues. Elisa returns my gaze with one of her own, and I see the fierce resentment she holds towards me struggling with begrudging respect in those grey irises. Perrine's stare is curiously without emotion, though flickers of anxiety held deep within his eyes. I wonder why. Vishas does not look back. He is afraid of my wrath, even though that rage has long since disappeared.

The last person I study is Doan, and the venerated Arcanist grins back at me with a confidence not seen in the others. That is to be expected. He knows what they do not. He was with me in that patch of clearing in the forest. He and his apprentices were the ones that labored for a night on the project I gave them. He knows that this will be no last stand. He knows that our end has not yet come.

But the others, they do not know. And as such, they display the grim fatalism of men who do not expect to see another dawn.

I do not attempt to tell them. Let these humans think they are waging their last battle. They will fight all the harder. Give a man an avenue of escape and he will shirk from combat in the hopes of surviving. Tell him he is doomed from the start, and he will die screaming the Emperor's name on his lips and fierce hatred in his heart. That is the hypocrisy of our race.

"Their fast-striking elements will attack first," Elisa whispers, as though if citing something from a manual, "Ghouls, most likely. In the hopes of catching us unawares. Maybe even Dark Riders."

"Dark Riders?" I inquire curiously.

"Horsemen once like us," was her response, "Raised from the dead along with their steeds. They are not many, but still enough to be a substantial threat."

"And there are these riders in Andorhal?"

She shrugs.

"I do not know."

I smile as I envision the images of the coming battle, the screams of men and beast, the dying wails of blasphemous enemies.

"Then we must prepare for the worst," is what I say back.

* * *

Vauron was chuckling as he surveyed the human ranks arrayed before his thundering charge. The confines of his horned helm affected the sound, and twisted it into something much more sinister. His steed, a deathcharger the color of blackened coal, gave a shrill scream in accompaniment to its master's merciless glee. The undead horse had already carried him far in front of his Dark Riders, its need for violence propelling the mount's legs to pummel the earth in a hideously fast gait.

The death knight's amused gaze switched back and forth from the ends of the ragged Crusader lines. The lich was right. This was a poor showing. Even for weaklings who still held on to their flesh. While the middle of the human battle formation was anchored solidly by a mass of experienced soldiers, the wings were a whole different matter. Each flank held a mass of civilians, noncombatants and virgins to the cruelties of war. They stood together in unorganized clumps, their frames unprotected by armor or shield. None looked the same. Some wore simple garments stitched together with coarse fabric. Their clothing were faded and patched in many places, probably from a lifetime of toil in the fields. Farmers and laborers. Others wore more elegant attire, though they were not the regal style of nobles. Merchants and vendors; slightly richer than the peasants that were their customers.

In their hands they held impromptu weapons; rakes for scraping the soil, clubs for driving off thieves, sledgehammers for pounding nails into wood, and in the clutch of some women, even pots and pans for cooking food! This was no army, he concluded. It was a collection of riffraff and conscripts. Not fit to feel the spiked steel of his mace.

Still, blood was blood. It did not matter whose it belonged to, as long as it was spilled for the Lich King.

It was a tempting thought to ride into the flanks of the human lines, and slaughter the civilians indiscriminately while drinking deep their fear. It was a tempting thought, but one he would have to put on hold. The mission came first. Their objective was a simple one. He and his riders would hammer into the true soldiers of the Crusade and utterly break them. He had near two hundred warriors for this task, all armored in plate and bearing fearsome weapons. There was no doubt that they would be victorious in this task. Already he could hear the hapless screams of the living as the tide of undeath that followed his glorious charge swept into the human lines shattered by his assault.

Squinting his eyes, Vauron thought he could see orderly ranks of soldiers forming behind the initial formation. Archers most likely. He was proven correct when a barrage of iron-tipped arrows arched high into the air and descended upon horned helms.

A storm of whinnying broke out as the hail of shafts found their marks. The gleaming tips punctured scores of horses, plunging deep into chests, necks, legs, and even heads in their vengeful flight. Thin plumes of blood sprayed from these wounds, coating the Dark Riders with the viscous ichor of their own mounts. Not a single one fell. Though many of the galloping deathchargers sported quivering arrows from their hide, they continued to careen on regardless. Like their masters, these chargers were reanimated with necrotic magics imbued by the Lich King himself. They knew no fear, felt no pain, and were instilled with a single purpose. To slaughter the enemies of the Scourge. A paltry volley of feathers glued to sticks were of little detriment to this purpose.

The death knight's own steed had been transfixed no less than four times. The deathcharger ignored these wounds as though if they were mere pinpricks, and ploughed recklessly forward in the direction of the Crusader formation.

A sudden flash of purple light flickered in the distance, and Vauron reflexively ducked. A hissing missile seared past his head, trailing streams of arcane energy. The Dark Rider directly behind him gave a grunt of surprise as the shimmering projectile connected with his face. The undead templar craned his neck to look back, just in time to see the warrior fall from his saddle, his head gone from his shoulders. A snarl broke the death knight's lips. First blood to the humans.

His gaze swept back to encompass the Crusader lines and saw the perpetrator of this unanticipated attack. Protected by scale mail and with feathers for decoration, was a tall, shapely figure. Two long ears extended from a beautiful face wreathed in blue hair. An elegant bow of well-carved wood sat securely in its hands, the tips bending as it was drawn back again. Night elf. A curse leapt from his mouth as he jerked his deathcharger's reins to the side. His mount obeyed, but clearly with reluctance. The Lich King made the steeds that would carry his champions bloodthirsty to the extreme. It was a fitting trait, and one that had served the Dark Riders well through many battles. However, in a case such as this, this attribute was an unwelcome one.

The deathcharger swerved to the side, fighting for control of the reins even as it did so. Had his steed been one used by the living, then it would have obeyed him without thought. Instead, it screamed shrilly and tried desperately to continue the charge forward. Its urge to slay and kill was strong, and it took all the strength in Vauron's arms to keep it from going berserk.

The enchanted arrow sped past, narrowly avoiding the death knight's saronite breastplate. An explosion of magic followed and another warrior galloping behind him was flung from his seat.

The fallen templar growled spitefully as he fought the rebelling steed. The deathcharger bucked and heaved beneath him, ear-piercing shrieks sounding from its fanged maw as it strained against its reins. The time it took for him to master the disobedient beast was ill-wasted. Every second he spent trying to impose his rule over the unruly steed was a second he could be in the midst of the foe, reveling in the acts of slaughter and butchery. It infuriated him that this reanimated creature, a gift from Lord Arthas it may be, would dare to defy his will.

Noise akin to thunder blasted into his ears as the Dark Riders that once followed him rushed past, leaving the furious death knight in their wake.

With a hateful roar, Vauron tugged hard on the leash clasped tight in his hand. He would burn in the fires of Blackrock Mountain rather than be usurped in deeds by his servants. The deathcharger's head bent back, pulled painfully by the unrelenting reins until its bestial head was face to face with the knight. Still defiant, it snorted into its rider's faceplate, exhaling foul-smelling grave-breath into the visor of its master's helm.

"You will heed me and heed me well, beast," the fallen knight hissed, "I am a Champion of the very being that remade you. Borne from the sacred undeath. Forged anew to fight the Lich King's wars. You are nothing more than a vessel to carry me into battle. You are nothing without me. Defy me, and I will tear you apart with my bare hands and feed your meat to the ghouls. I am the favored of Lord Arthas. My loss will be mourned. Yours will not. There are plenty horse carcasses to reanimate in Acherus."

The deathcharger snorted, its bestial eyes locked in loathing with the death knight's. But there was at least a primitive sort of understanding gleaming from within them. Vauron let the leather leash in his hands go slack. The undead steed reared up on its hind legs, whinnying as it enjoyed in its new found freedom. Without a second thought, it dashed in the direction of the human battle lines, eager to make up for the time it had lost.

Another flight of shafts hailed down upon the Scourge cavalry. Vauron's mount had not yet caught up with the main body of horsemen, and thus was spared from the volley. A few steeds screamed, and toppled head over heels, their monstrous bodies looking like pincushions. Dark Riders were catapulted from their slain mounts, armored frames landing in broken, lifeless heaps. But these were too few to make a difference. Too little to affect the impetus of the charge. The Crusaders would have to do better if they hoped to stand against his warriors.

Again a sorcerous projectile shot from the bow of the night elf, piercing a Dark Rider's hulking cuirass and blasting him apart in a flash of azure energy. Cocky bitch, thought Vauron.

The undead templar kicked his steed's sides with his spurs, eliciting a shriek not of pain from the deathcharger, but of excitement. It was deep in the throes of bloodlust and needed no further urging. Saronite shod hooves battered the earth, and threw spurts of dislodged soil into the air. The death knight willed his mount to gallop faster. The ranks of humans were growing nearer with each crashing hoof beat, and Vauron was keen to spill the blood of the living.

The line of Scarlet soldiers held steady in the face of near ten score Dark Riders bearing down upon them, their shields held tightly together to form an unyielding wall of steel. Broad-bladed swords were clasped in their gloved hands, their polished surfaces gleaming like silver. It was a courageous stand, but ultimately futile. The momentum of two hundred rushing deathchargers, and the thousands of pounds of force behind them would smash any resistance aside, be they courageous or not. He was sure of it. The Crusaders would splinter apart from the mass charge, and subsequently would be easy prey for the zombies that followed.

Vauron did not look back to see if Araj's minions were behind them. The lich had given his word they would be supported. That was enough for him. The oaths sworn between the knights of Acherus made them different from the myriad minions in the vast Scourge host. They were beings of honor, and their vows were more important than life itself. Ironic that many had held the same views before their death at the hands of the Lich King.

The Summoner had promised the death knight five thousand undead from the garrison at Andorhal and consequently fulfilled his obligation. Not only that, nearly all of the ruined city's abominations had been called to war, more than enough to utterly demolish this upstart army of Crusaders. It was a magnificent gesture on the lich's part, and one he would not soon forget. Even now, as his deathcharger narrowed the gap between him and the charging Dark Riders, he was thinking of how wrong it was for him to question Araj's judgment. Yes, the lich was haughty to the extreme and overconfident to the point of arrogance, but in the end, it was Araj that was the first to settle the differences between them in the interest of a greater goal. The Summoner's willingness to work together was something worthy of respect in the fallen templar's opinion.

The lich had been true to his word, and thus, Vauron had no reason to doubt him.

The company of Dark Riders was but fifty paces away from the human formations when the ranks of Crusaders suddenly marched backwards in disciplined order. Their unexpected withdrawal left an easily exploitable gap in the battle line, which proved to be too tantalizing for the Scourge horsemen to resist. All of the two hundred galloping riders surged towards the gap; weapons raised high above their heads. All except one.

Vauron hesitated. Something was amiss here. He had fought the warriors of the Scarlet Crusade many times, and in all his experiences, they were never the ones to retreat when a battle was to be had. Their brains were addled with blind devotion and dogmatic faith, preventing them from utilizing tactics on the battlefield besides pointless last stands. The fact that these warriors of the Crimson Leaf were retreating did not sit well with the death knight.

He dragged the reins back and forced his deathcharger again to pause in its gait. The mount whinnied shrilly in complaint, but slowed gradually to a halt. It was intelligent enough to know the consequences should it ignore its masters orders once more.

His eyes peered searchingly for the reason for the Scarlet's retreat. His close scrutiny was soon rewarded. Thick, unevenly hewn poles appeared as the human soldiers withdraw, buried obliquely into the earth so their tipped ends pointed towards the onrushing mass of horsemen. Stakes. Hastily cut and roughly made, but stakes nonetheless. Each was planted firmly into the soil, arrayed akin to the quill-filled hide of a porcupine's back, placed with enough room for individual foot soldiers to move through, but too bunched for horses. They were a deathtrap meant for cavalry and his Dark Riders were head directly for them.

Vauron bellowed a warning, but it was far too late. The hurtling deathchargers would never stop in time, not when their bloodlust had been roused to its highest state. Even had these steeds not been gripped in the throes of battle-thirst, they still would have been unable to halt. The impetus of the massed charge was too much, the onrushing momentum, too many. The leading chargers could not stop without being smashed aside and trampled by those in the rear ranks. As thus, the death knight could only watch in horror as his two hundred warriors were carried helplessly towards the rows of sharpened stakes.

Harsh screams sounded, from both man and horse, as the Dark Riders collided with the cruelly wrought traps. Stricken steeds impaled themselves upon the jutting, wooden spikes, their frantic struggling forcing the sharpened ends deeper and deeper into their flesh. The entire front rank of Scourge horsemen were thrown from their saddles, flung haplessly into the air by the gruesome deaths of their mounts. The surprised cries of dozens of the armored warriors were silenced abruptly as their flight was ended by those stakes arrayed further back. Gory bodies twitched and convulsed in their death throes, leaking dark blood down the hafts of the crudely forged poles and pooling around the mounds of dirt that was the foundation of each stake.

Some were spared of this inglorious fate, flung far enough to avoid impalement and desecration. These warriors landed hard, the crunching sound of their sundered armor not loud enough to cover the snapping noise of broken bones. Those pitiful few that survived the fall attempted to rise, some reaching for their discarded armaments.

The formation of retreating Crusaders suddenly halted their withdrawal, and marched forward, broadswords scything down in merciless strokes. The Dark Riders fortunate enough to not end skewered on the tips of staves were hacked down by the wall of advancing soldiers, blackish blood fountaining into the air as numerous blades clove into their battered bodies. The survivors were butchered with ruthless efficiency before a wave of stomping boots trampled their prone forms and further defiled their frames.

Vauron roared an obscenity as he witnessed the charge falter before the dug in stakes. The deathchargers that followed the ill-fated front ranks stood up on their hind legs, shocked at the gruesome deaths of their kin. Their riders hung on for dear life, the need to kill temporarily forgotten as their steeds bucked and reared. The Scarlets grasped this opportunity by its helm. As the Scourge horsemen fought to say atop their rebelling mounts, the ranks of human swordsmen advanced in a solid line, presenting a united front of shields and blades against the Dark Riders.

The Crusaders marched through the rows of sharpened staves, lead by two officers wielding a massive zweihander and a slender rapier between them. They ignored the skewered bodies that hung in macabre fashions all around their advance, maneuvering past the deathtraps with confident ease. Swords swung in flashing arcs, aimed for the vulnerable, unarmored legs of the undead horses. Thick blood spilled onto the soil as screaming steeds toppled, limbs amputated by well-placed blows. The warriors they carried fell as well, crashing awkwardly to the ground in jumbled heaps. Steel blades stabbed down, and ended the lives of those unhorsed.

"Back! Back you fools!" the death knight snarled vehemently.

Those that had the wits to listen wisely heeded the templar's words, and urged their mounts away from the carnage. Those that did not were either still fighting to control their raging steeds or embroiled in a one-sided battle with the humans. Even as he watched, it was clear to Vauron who would emerge as the victors. The Crusaders had taken away the impetus of the charge, and were bringing down the stalled Dark Riders by hamstringing their horses. The last few horsemen were still waging a futile conflict against the Scarlet swordsmen, raining hastily-aimed blows while desperately trying to rein in their mounts.

"What now?" asked one of those who had withdrawn in a guttural tone, his deathcharger pulling up next to the death knight's own steed.

"We fall back and attack again," Vauron replied grimly, eyes set malevolently towards the unfolding butchery of his men.

"Better to retreat," growled another, his mount bearing bloody lacerations where the stakes had grazed, "Our charge has been broken. Let the footsloggers grind themselves against the humans. We have done enough as is."

The Dark Rider spoke no more. Vauron's spiked mace smashed into his helm, and pulped the pale face behind it into an unrecognizable ruin. The Scourge horseman was lifted from his saddle, and sent flying backwards by the brutal force of the unexpected strike. With a resounding crunch, the man landed in a tangled heap, blood spurting from his mangled faceplate.

"That is the fate of cowards," the death knight spat, his now bloodied weapon pointing towards the dead warrior, "and I will have no cowards in my army."

The templar's baleful gaze switched to the milling men under his command, daring them to rebel against his authority. None met his furious glare.

"Reform the ranks," he ordered, reveling in his mastery over these riders, "We will attack again. We must break the human formations for Araj's minions."

"They are not coming," came another voice, "The lich's forces. They have not moved from their positions."

"What!" Vauron roared, jerking his head back to see.

The Dark Rider was right. Brutus and the five thousand undead remained in their original places, hundreds of yards to the rear. The death knight could see the disorderly mobs of putrid zombies and the hunched, malformed frames of ghouls intermixed in between. The hulking frames of abominations towered above the motionless horde, and beyond them, a thin figure wrapped in the garments of the Cult of the Damned. They hadn't budged a damned inch.

"Treachery…" he breathed, his mind reeling in shock at this blatant betrayal, "He will pay. Araj will pay for this."

Before the fallen knight could say anything else, the Crusader soldiers marched past the defensive stakes and the slain bodies of Dark Riders, swords clashing against their shields in an undeniable challenge. They stomped resolutely towards the surviving horsemen, a living wall of steel and iron. Vauron's glare focused on the orderly formation of human warriors and wrathful fire danced in his eyes. He turned back and briefly scanned his own forces. Of the original two hundred, barely half that number still sat atop their steeds. His losses were many, but those that survived would be enough.

"With me!" he bellowed, mace swinging in the direction of the Scarlets, "By the sacred blade of Frostmourne I will break this army of the living and deliver the head of their angel to the Lich King or die a second death trying!"

A chorus of approval came from the throats of his warriors, and they raised high their weapons in a fatalistic salute. The death knight returned the gesture, his spurs digging deep into his mount's flank, forcing it to rear and whinny.

"Blood for the Scourge!" Vauron called out.

"Blood for the All-King!" his Dark Riders answered in a cacophony of bellows.

Thunder sounded again as the hooves of five score deathchargers beat at the barren earth in a frenzied gallop. War cries from a hundred plate clad warriors intermixed with the maddened shrieks of a hundred bloodthirsty horses, becoming a storm of howling noise and terrifying sounds. Ahead of this hurtling, unstoppable mass was the death knight himself, his fearsome weapon clasped upright in a two-handed grip. Together, as one, they bore down on the foolish humans who had dared to leave behind the crude stakes that had been their protection.

The front rank of the Crusader formation knelt in the face of this onslaught, shields still locked together, presenting the oncoming Scourge riders with a clear view of those behind them. The second rank held no sword and wore little protection. In their gloved hands they carried muskets. No, not muskets. The barrels were too wide for that. These were blunderbusses, archaic memories now after the development of dwarven musket. And yet, these were the armaments the second line carried. The inferior guns were raised to shoulder height, yawning maws for barrels pointed in the direction of the armored horsemen.

A joke, all of this, thought the death knight. Musket balls could not pierce the reinforced saronite of his plate. Neither could they do much against the frenzied deathchargers that were his and his men's steeds. It was a futile effort on the Scarlet's part.

The templar saw a middle aged man in the midst of the Crusader gunners, slightly balding, and with an air of authority about him. It was towards this figure the knight guided his deathcharger, eager to claim the life of an officer in lieu of a common soldier.

The blunderbusses fired, spitting thick clouds of discharged gunpowder from their iron orifices. A glimpse of a smile formed on the human commander's lips, and a great cry erupted from his men in one crescendo of noise.

"THIS IS MY BOOMSTICK!" was the last thing Vauron heard before his world was enveloped in a storm of shrapnel.

* * *

_Blood of Sanguinius: Pretty much. Imperial Guard technology, while not the most advanced, are extremely, extremely robust and reliable. Hell, their damned tanks can run on anything you feed the engine, be it promethium, alcohol, or rocks. An interesting thing about Astartes, is that in the Horus Heresy series, they are portrayed as effectively immortal due to the genetic augmentations that have been performed on them. Suffice to say, there have been no recorded instance of a Space Marine dying from old age._

_JagerPanzer: I would rate IG flak armor as similar if not slightly better than the standard combat vests worn by our armed forces today. Carapace armor though, is quite literally, on another level entirely. And yes, prayers are effective against Warp daemons, as evidenced by the Grey Knights._

_Shas: Better late than never!_

_Imperialguardsmen: The parallel between magic in Warcraft and sorcery in 40k is an interesting one to say the least. I believe I have covered a little in regards to the Word Bearer sorcerer's POV in chapter 29. As for light magic, I can only say Avarian will be very, very hesitant on relying on anything that is not "sanctified"._

_The Doctor: I don't plan for the romance (if there will be one) to be cluttered together in one chapter. It will be a gradual thing, and probably won't be realized by our protagonist until the very end. He is a Space Marine after all. The guy's clueless on everything except for matters of war and faith!_

_Soulless Reader: This fic will probably end as an AU instead of a regular crossover. I have taken some "liberties" with the Lich King timeline, so people will understandably be confused about some things. In this case, Vauron is an Acherus death knight loyal to Arthas, as Darion has not yet broken away from the Lich King. Heck, there are a ton of death knights that still served the Lich King even after Mograine rebelled._

_SirLagginton: Space Marines are meant for one thing and one thing only; the destruction of humanity's enemies. However, that does not mean they are incapable of anything else. We have to realize that despite their various genetic changes, they are still in their hearts and souls, humans. The traits they hold as sacred such as honor, courage, duty, and loyalty, are all traits we as a race hold sacred as well. Astartes can hold strong feelings for others, in some cases, even women, as demonstrated in the novel, Space Wolf. They just typically don't understand this feeling, and will probably ignore it so they can better CLEANSE PURGE KILL!_

_Skipper_1337: The reason why they are called First Company will be revealed to you shortly. And Vareesa won't be a baddy. I can guarantee you on that. She's cunning and sly, with a skewed sense of morals, but she's not the type to give herself to the Dark Gods for a moment of pleasure._

_Ogun Nagoura: Thank you!_

_Sabbat: I'd say Aratech's Halo and Dungeons and Dragons crossover (I forget the name) is pretty good. You should check up on that._

_David Knight: Everything happens in the next chapter… and the next… and the next after that… -devilish smile-_

_Leafy8765: There is a common misconception that IG die left and right. This is somewhat untrue. If you've read the Cain novels, Gaunt's Ghosts, or any of the Imperial Guard stand-alone fics, you'd realize that the Guard are an army of badasses. They'd have to be. The IG are the best five to ten percent of a world's military force, and the numerous enemies they face pretty much turn them to disciplined, killing machines. The reason why the Guard are sometimes portrayed badly, is because the opposition they face. I mean come on, when you're facing enemies that could turn your comrades into gibbering daemons with a stare armed only with a lasgun and bayonet, you're pretty much screwed._

_Kart87: Thanks!_

_Colonelwalrus: Word Bearers are all about bearing the word. (cwhutIdidthar?)_

_Jib316: Sorry, the only cakes I have in my shop are filled with monomolecular teeth and discarded boltgun magazines. _

_Pinto: Action in this chapter and the next my friend!_

_Salle1980: You would be correct. Bronze dragon in gnome form._

_LunaticPandora1: Nah, they'll be equipped with the Emperor's sweaters and holy water balloons._

_Avid Reader Guy: Man fist through the screen!_

_Grey Knight Stern: No. The majority of Astartes chapters do not know the Legion of the Damned exist. They only ones they do are the ones the Legion have saved on the battlefield._

_Chris Adair: It might be. I might not be. Who knows? :P_

_1bramgaunt: Flashlights that can shoot through meter thick concrete and a t-shirt that can stop bullets doesn't sound too bad when all you have is a sword and shield._

_Xynth: Hope and I deliver. Hopefully…_

_Numbah six-sixtysix: The decision to chemically castrate a Space Marine would depend on the chapter. Some would, and some wouldn't. I don't seem to recall it is written in the fluff that Astartes have to be castrated. I have a sneaking suspicion that Space Marines wouldn't sell nearly as well if GW decided to make them into nine-foot tall, genetically-enhanced eunuchs._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: I don't seem to recall saying that Avarian's crates had hundreds of neatly stacked lasguns and flak armor… :P That being said, you'll just have to see in the next chapter!_

_HAL-9001: Well, when you have super hearing, and if you're a Space Marine, all of that superior sense would be directed on a battle, or things you want to focus on. Small talk and rumors are things an Astartes would never be interested in, so it is very plausible Avarian has heard the two conspiring, but glosses it over for more important things._

_Timewatch: The dreadnought will appear. Just not right now._

_Thekilleregglord: Heh, cliffhangers are something you just can't avoid with this story._

_Basikampfire: As much awesome that would bring, you have to think logically for a second. The Scarlet Champions aren't known for sniping at enemies from afar. That's a job for Locksey and his huntsmen. _

_Hairul the Nightrage Beast: Thank you!_

_Mephisteron: That is something many readers have suggested as well, and something I am contemplating._

_Night Hunter MGS: Heh, well, what I meant was that while there will be deaths in this fic, none of them will be in vain, and generally Azeroth's fate will be positive. Generally…_

_CelticReaper: Here it is then, for your approval!_

_TheEmperorProtects: You are correct in saying that the speech Avarian issued last chapter was based off the Grey Knights litany. However, as I have mentioned throughout this fic, there is a certain Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus that is quite important. In the end, everything will add up, and the reason why the protagonist knows of the Grey Knights will be unveiled. I base this story strictly on what the fluff entails, so while there may be mistakes, I try to make them either believable or relatively minor. As for both elves, they will remain pivotal in their roles. Just not now. Avarian being a die-hard Space Marine being the chief reason. The guy would probably gladly throw the 'xenos' away from his army if he was able, but due to reasons already described in this story, cannot._


	43. First Company

Chapter 42

A great cheer arose from the Scarlet lines as the clouds of grey smoke dissipated, tearing from every throat along the formations of Crusaders. The feared cavalry charge of the Dark Riders had been broken, with one brutal salvo from Locksey and his gunners. The evidence lay right before them. Mangled corpses, ruined forms of both man and horse, were strewn in a haphazard pattern across the field, bleeding the contents of their bodies out onto the soiled ground. Some had died mere yards away from the ranks of human soldiers, shredded into unrecognizable messes by the massed volley of shrapnel. The majority, however, sported less hideous wounds, albeit still very lethal. These warriors lay in ugly, broken positions, many having been dismounted forcibly by the hail of metal shards and debris. A few still moved. Feebly, and without strength, they crawled away from their slain steeds, their sundered plate leaking dark ichor.

Again the Crusaders marched forward, breaking ranks and forming small clusters of men and women as they traversed through the carpet of motionless forms. This time, no shields were raised by tense arms in the hopes of protection. Only swords rose. Those survivors that had endured the fire of the blunderbusses found themselves beset on all sides by the vengeful soldiers of Lordaeron.

No mercy was asked, and no mercy was given. The Scourge horsemen were beings of the undeath. They knew no such things as surrender or mercy. The Lich King had made them solely for the purpose of killing. Anything else was foreign to them. The humans knew of such things, but declined to give them to the warriors that breathed their last breaths at their feet. Too much blood had been shed for that, too much loathing for a foe that had taken away the lives of their loved ones. The swords that rose, now fell, descending hatefully on the ravaged frames of the undead riders. There were no screams. The Dark Riders died silently, accepting their fates without uttering a single word.

One crowd of swordsmen, lead by two captains, found the death knight.

* * *

Vauron reached for his mace, and then realized the limb that was outstretched ended at the elbow. A bloodied stump was what remained; fickle fortune having decided that a wayward piece of metal would slice deep into the unprotected joint of his arm plate. He was devoid of the use of one arm, but he had another. Saronite armored fingers extended and clawed for the haft of the maul that lay not inches from his face.

A boot stomped down, and pinned his arm to the ground. He screamed. Not from pain, but from frustration. How dare these mortals do this to him? How dare these weaklings defy his charge? How dare they prevent him from grasping his own weapon?

"Oho! Look what we have here!" came a happy, almost gleeful voice from above him, "Come Sir Vachon! See what I have discovered!"

He wanted to spit in disgust, but blood had clogged his throat.

"Do not call me that," the second voice did not contain nearly the same amount of glee as the first.

"Why? Vachon was the name given to you by your mother, may she rest in peace. I hope you don't intend to change what your fine parents have given you at birth."

"I meant the 'sir'."

"And why not? The angel has knighted us all, no? You are Sir Vachon as I am Sir Melrache. Noble and virtuous knights of the Scarlet Crusade. Perhaps after this we will go to Hearthglen and be bequeathed steeds, eh? I can imagine the two of us riding atop our gallant mounts and turning many a fair lady's head."

"I think you would scare any woman away with that perverted gleam in your eyes."

"Then I will find a way to cover them! I will have Arcanist Doan fashion for me a most handsome set of goggles, with magical properties to boot!"

"Why does it need to be magical?"

"Ahah! A fine question but one that must never be answered!"

Vauron growled, a wet sound that drifted from his fluid-filled throat. The noise caught the attention of the two Crusaders.

"This is what you called me over to see? A nearly dead Scourge? In a field of dead Scourge? There is nothing special about that. Kill it, Darrik, unless you want me to."

_"Puny mortals!"_ he wanted to scream. "_You dare hold my life in the balance? Had it not been for the traps you laid out for my Dark Riders, it would be you who lie broken on the ground, not I!"_ All that came out was a weakened, throaty rasp, pathetic sounding even to his own ears.

"Do not be so sure, my friend," the man called Melrache spoke, "Look at this one's armor. Very much different from the others, yes?"

The broad edge of a claymore tapped lightly against his cuirass and left a scratch mark in the saronite plate. He howled silently at this disfigurement. Any scar upon his armor not earned in battle was a disgrace to his honor.

"More elaborate and better constructed," confirmed the one known as Vachon, "Still, I don't see why you dragged me over here just to see a half-dead Scourge, higher ranking he may be."

"Ahhh, but while you may not be interested, others would be! Take this one to Vishas, Doan, or even the Lady Commissar herself, and we will be well rewarded! Maybe even take him to the angel, eh?"

That was too much. To be dragged in such a way to the leader of this human army was too much for him. It would be degrading, humiliating even. An insult. It would not be the honorable end all death knights desired.

With a throaty roar, he freed his arm trapped beneath the Crusader's boot, desperation lending him strength. His fingers reached out once more and successfully clasped the grip of his idling mace. Vauron swung the weapon in a horizontal arc, a weak and unsteady blow but one that nevertheless caught the humans by surprise. A stunned grunt sounded from beside him as one of the Scarlets was swept from his feet and thrown against the ground in a crumpled heap. He sincerely wished the warrior who had been knocked down was one of his tormentors.

The templar rose to his full height, his spiked cudgel battering aside the hasty strikes that were aimed towards him by the alarmed soldiers. He was weakened, yes, but far from defeated. Black ichor flowed down his frame in rivers, but that did little to impede the death knight. What was the danger of losing blood when you were already dead? One armed, and wounded beyond what was humanly possible, the death knight took a single step towards the hole in the human lines left by the overeager Crusaders.

Blades flashed towards him, glinting with lethal brilliance. Half were deflected by the whirling blur that was his weapon, the other half clanging off his armor in a ringing chorus. Not lightly did the forgesmiths of the Lich King take their occupations. Vauron took another step forward, snarling as he found his advance impeded by more of the Scarlet swordsmen. Done with butchering the helpless, unhorsed riders, the humans converged on his position with their blades swinging.

"Damn you Araj," he hissed as more flashing swords descended, his tone as venomous as a serpent, "If I live through this, I will tear you apart with my bare hands!"

* * *

"He is but one man, my lord. One survivor amongst the Dark Riders. I do not understand your anger."

Of course she doesn't. Chained to her old ways, bound to her archaic ideas of how wars should be fought. She does not understand my frustrations. Perhaps she never will. My gaze moves from the unfolding scene of chaos and focus on the slim figure beside me. Whitemane does not flinch as I glare at her. Gone is the nervous and anxiety-ridden woman I met in the confines of her monastery's chapel. She is beginning to reassert herself, as a leader and commander to those who bear the banner of her Crusade. With this renewal, comes a streak of stubbornness all leaders possess. Add to this a mind filled with faith, and I have at my hands a future canoness of the Adepta Sororitas.

It is with difficulty that I prevent the choler I feel from leaking into my voice.

"That is not the point I am trying to make, Commissar," I growl, "Your men have broken ranks without reason. That is the source of my disappointment."

"Why would you be disappointed?" she looks up at me in genuine surprise, "They are doing only what is right. Ending the lives of those Scourge scum is only natural."

Listen to her. So convinced of her own ways. So confident her men will succeed. So blind. This one is in desperate need of a knock over the head with the venerable tome that is the Codex Astartes.

"A soldier's duty is not to do what he thinks is natural or right. A soldier's duty is to obey," I say to her, knowing it will be a fruitless effort on my part, "These men have broken formation to slay their foes without orders from either you or me. Their thinking is understandable, but nevertheless, it is the wrong way to think."

"How is killing the enemy the wrong way to think?" the question she asks is beyond inane. Yet, from the expression she wears on her face, I can tell she is not joking. She honestly does not know.

"There is nothing wrong with slaying the foe. But nothing good comes from glorifying in it. That is what your men are doing. They are too eager to close with the foe. Too impatient to spill blood. They must restrain themselves. Discipline must be upheld. Otherwise, they are useless to me and to you."

I notice the crestfallen look that has taken over her features and smile bitterly behind my helm. How horridly some humans take to the smallest of criticisms.

"You have many fine warriors, Lady Commissar," I nod in recognition, attempting to salvage this woman's pride, "but none of them are soldiers."

"They are the same thing, are they not?" she demands, hurt honor adding an edge to her voice that normally I would have found insulting, "A soldier is a warrior just as a warrior is a soldier."

I shake my head at this. Throne help me, but it is taxing to deal with those unversed in military tactics. However, I can understand why this woman thinks thus. Her organization, the Scarlet Crusade she holds her loyalty to, is based on archaic ideals of what war should be. I have read the documents that sit in Arcanist Doan's library. The pamphlets and recruiting material used to persuade men to enlist within the Crusade's ranks. They painted a rosy portrayal of how battles should be fought, with valiant men standing shoulder to shoulder, swords raised in mailed fists, shields locked together. This was the way these humans have waged violence against the Scourge. Forming ragged shield walls and bracing themselves for each undead assault. It is no wonder after all these years they have little to show for it.

Oh what I would give to have just one regiment of Guardsmen here on this misbegotten world! To have platoons of soldiers equipped with the ubiquitous lasgun marching beside me. To have squadrons of Leman Russes roaming alongside the infantry. With these resources, I could show the denizens of this planet how a real war is to be waged! Or failing that, allow me half a company of Astartes, and I could burn the taint from this world in a week! Instead I am given humans who wield swords and dress themselves in mail, and who think charging wildly into battle without a thought of restraint is akin to bravery.

No doubt the Black Templars would make this world their recruiting ground if they knew it existed.

I stow away my wishful thoughts for later. Thinking alone won't help me turn these Crusaders into competent Guardsmen.

"There is a difference," I reply stoically, crushing the annoyance I felt with near two centuries worth of discipline, "A warrior fights for many things. He may fight for honor, for loot, for vengeance, or simply for the sake of spilling blood. A soldier fights only because his superior orders it. That is the difference."

Whitemane blinks up at me, and I see that the confusion has not left her eyes even after my explanation.

"With all due respect, great angel" she says, "I would rather have men who are convinced in their ideals at my side than those who fight only because their officers order them to."

"That is the wrong way to think," I growl softly, repeating the words that I have earlier stated, "War is not an affair of conviction and faith. There must be order and discipline. How can a battle be fought when a general's men refuse to heed her commands in favor of their own judgment? How can a line be held when the soldiers under her authority break formation to finish a downed foe of negligible threat? How can a victory be won if her warriors cannot listen to the orders that are the life and blood of an army?"

"With faith and with devotion," she answers with confidence, "With our belief in the Light and the Emperor. With strength in our arms and courage in our hearts. That is how we will send the Scourge filth running."

I smile grimly as I recognize my own words in her declarations. I will have to refute my own rhetoric to persuade her. The irony is not lost on me.

"Faith is no substitute for obedience," I begin my response, "And devotion is no replacement for discipline," my hand gestures towards the mob of Crusader swordsmen crowding the last Scourge horseman, "There is no excuse for your men's brash ignorance of your authority, Commissar. They must know the consequences of insubordination."

Whitemane bites her lip and does not reply. I sense the fierce battle that wages in her mind, a vicious clash between the traditionalism of her order and the new ways presented in my statements. I can sympathize with her. It is not easy for one to cast off the influence of tradition. I can only hope this human is willing to shed off the trappings of her archaic customs of war.

Sudden cries of alarm spill into the air, distracting me from my conversation with the Commissar. I turn and my visor immediately discerns the source for the shouts. The Scarlet soldiers, Captains Vachon and Melrache among them, are swiftly backing away from their lone victim. Coruscating arcs of purple energy lash from the battered frame of the Scourge minion, surging across the ground in erratic patterns. Each tendril lances for the prone body of a Dark Rider, squirming into the motionless forms like parasitic worms. I snarl at the blasphemy that is occurring before my very eyes, and my fingers reflexively tighten around the grip of my bolter. But that is not all. Each corpse afflicted by the whips of dark energy jerk and convulse with new found life, twisting on the ground and flailing about with leaden limbs.

"A spell of reanimation," gasps Whitemane in horror, her quarrel with me temporarily forgotten.

A simple name for such an act of indescribable evil, yet an apt one, nevertheless. The Dark Riders, slain not moments ago, rise from the earth, devastated frames staggering up and spilling black ichor in rivers down their wrecked war plate. Without warning, they launch themselves with bestial howls at the stunned crowds of Crusaders, weapons seemingly forgotten. The Scarlet soldiers, their formations broken, are swiftly assailed by this new foe. Without their comrades guarding their flanks, the humans are forced to fight back to back to ward off the snarling monsters that attack them from all sides. Those who are too slow are borne down by the foul creatures, and their cries are agonizing to hear.

"He has turned them all into ghouls," the Commissar's face is stricken as she speaks and as I turn to regard her, she blanches visibly.

"Now do you see why discipline must be upheld?" I ask softly.

She nods faintly in reply.

"Vachon's and Melrache's men are the first and last line of defense in our center," my statement causes Whitemane to swallow, "We must send in the reserves before they are overwhelmed."

"There are no reserves," she answers me with dread in her voice, "the militia are stationed too far from the center, as are the Myrmidons and the spearmen."

"No. There are reserves," my eyes linger on the thirty warriors of the Argent Dawn and the paladin that leads them, "You just won't like where they come from."

Three strides and I am away from her, my chainsword leaping from the mag-clamps on my belt and into my hand.

"Gyran," I say with disgust clawing at my insides, "with me."

* * *

Vareesa ducked under the armored ghoul's swing, tilting her head just slightly so the clumsy blow would pass inches from her face. The freshly raised undead growled and turned, its monstrous countenance thankfully hidden from view by the helm that sat over its head. A throaty snarl sounded from behind the creature, but it ignored it, so focused it was on her becoming its next meal. That changed when Avarian's blade burst from its chest. The Scourge gurgled in rising panic, thick blood fountaining from its sundered breastplate. Its pitiful cries were halted when an unstoppable force smashed it from the toothed sword and planted it face first into the dirt-caked ground.

The god glared down at the ruined corpse, and lowered the foot that had kicked the beast from his weapon. Vareesa shivered in excitement as those cold, unblinking visors moved from the slain ghoul and onto her. Not a second passed, but the blood elf felt she was staring up at those false eyes for an eternity. No man had ever made her feel this way. None had come close to arousing her interest. Her standards were too high, even for her fellow sin'dorei. But this one… It was intoxicating just to be near him! The rogue smiled as her imagination worked feverishly to churn out a hundred different possibilities, all of them quite scandalous.

The giant's weapon suddenly leapt for her, an incoming mass of black metal and jagged spikes that she could not avoid. The blade hurtled past her face, the shrieking of motors violating her sensitive ears. A mewling wail came from behind her, and the elf twisted on her heel to see the ghoul that had been sneaking past her guard impaled through its face by the god's screeching sword.

"Focus," Avarian growled in admonishment, before wrenching his blade from the collapsing Scourge.

_"Oh I will"_, she thought to herself, her eyes roaming all over the god's immense frame _"Just not on what you want."_

The giant did not notice the glint in her pupils, and instead marched relentlessly towards the mess that had once been a proper battle line. The gun that was held secure in the man's vice-like grip boomed, the thick barrel flashing with successive discharge. Each shot was well-placed. Ghouls were flung from their victims, the armor they wore in their past life shattering apart into pieces of broken metal. Ichor misted into the air, all that remained of torsos, heads, and limbs.

And then the god was amongst them, striding forward at an unmatchable pace, his blade carving left and right into the unwary foe.

There was no form to his swordsmanship, Vareesa realized as she studied him. At least none she could recognize. The giant fought in a way that was alien to her, relying on crude, yet devastatingly effective blows that inflicted obscene amounts of damage wherever they landed. Arms were severed in brutal hacking motions, helms caving in from cruel punches, bodies sheared in two as churning teeth did their grisly work. No strike was the same, each as unexpected as the last. There were no patterns to his bladework, no set movements repeated over and over that she could memorize. Unpredictable would be the way she would describe the god's fighting prowess.

And that made him all the more attractive.

"If you stare any harder," said an irritating female presence from beside her, "your eyeballs will fall out of their sockets."

Keina Stormsong glided past the blood elf on confident legs, arrow held taut against the groove of her bow. A grunt of effort escaped the kaldorei's lips as she released, sending the feathered shaft slashing through the air. The helmeted face of a ghoul looked up, just in time for the deadly tip to enter the faceplate's slit-like visor. The monster's head snapped back, and it teetered on its feet drunkenly before falling to the ground in a pile of loose limbs.

"You say that as though I am the only one staring," was Vareesa's measured reply.

The sentinel captain glared in response to the witty comment, but the rogue could see that there was a hidden guilt lurking behind those moon-shaped eyes. _"Foolish woman,"_ she reflected, _"Keep holding yourself back, and the entirety of him will soon be mine."_

A leaping undead, plated limbs outstretched to claw and rend, interrupted her train of thought. The sin'dorei stepped back, weapons held artfully in a combat-ready stance. Her stilettos could not penetrate the former Dark Rider's armor from the front, this she knew. But that did not mean there were no weaknesses she could exploit. Far from it. As the ghoul reached for her, she skillfully sidestepped, digging her dagger deep into the creature's more vulnerable side. The wickedly sharp ends sank deep into scant protection that was chainmail, and as the gibbering beast hurtled past in its mad charge, gouged cruel lacerations in the pallid flesh. The ghoul screamed, and scrabbled at the contagion-filled blood that poured freely from its torn flank. Vareesa allowed it no time for respite. Her short blades rammed together as one into the Scourge's back, slicing through diseased skin and puncturing the meat that lay underneath. The daggers continued to needle their way into the undead's body, stopping only when they found resilient bone in their path. The blood elf smiled in victory, and twisted her weapons, scissoring the obstruction in two.

The ghoul flopped to the earth, extremities jerking uncontrollably, its spine sliced cleanly apart. She enjoyed the hateful, frenzied look the monster shot her. It was the only form of defiance it could display, helpless as it was in its pitiful state. It knew it was defeated, and the knowledge of its own failure only added to her pleasure.

As thus, she was understandably miffed when a steel axe crashed down on the defeated undead, and severed its head from its neck.

"What did you do that for?" Vareesa demanded.

"It wasn't dead," came the orc's retort, "

"I knew that," she snapped back, angrily this time, "You think I did not know that?"

"Forgive me," replied Karduk as he stomped past in his war plate, "I thought your race's need for magic had addled your mind."

The insult was a crude one and ill-delivered, but it stung anyways. The orc chuckled at the wrathful expression that formed across her face. When he next called back, his voice was filled with dark amusement.

"Save your thoughts of revenge, elf. They wouldn't work on me anyways. I don't have any mana."

She growled at that. How dare this greenskin besmirch the honor of the sin'dorei? The rumors of depraved blood elves assaulting travelling mages and sorcerers were mostly true, yes, but that did not mean all of her kin had fallen to such degeneracy. Even as she stared daggers at the orc's broad back, what remained of her people were fighting against their magical addiction in the ruins of Quel'thalas. Not that she cared about them of course, but it was still offensive to hear the weakness of her race magnified from the orifice of a lesser species.

And they were lesser species. The members of the Horde, that was. Savage orcs whom the elves had fought in the First and Second Wars. Gangly trolls that had raided elven caravans when her people still called themselves the quel'dorei. Overgrown tauren whose interest lay solely in mounds of dirt and soil. These were the beasts the descendents of the Highborne were reduced to peddling to. It was galling for her, and for many of her kinsmen, to bow their heads to the Warchief when just decades before, they had been waging war against his predecessor. Some had left because of this very reason, and rejoined the Alliance. Shame on them. The insults heaped by Garithos and his ilk were a stain on sin'dorei honor and would not soon be expunged. Others threw their lot in with the Horde. Shame on them as well. Consorting with the former slaves of the Burning Legion was an act that reeked of desperation, but at least she could understand that. Survival came first and foremost, and as a rogue, that tenet was something she could most identify with.

That didn't meant she had to like it though. As she continued to glare hatefully at the orc, who now was in thick of fighting, her imagination soared once more, and brought a cruel smile to her lips.

Her smile disappeared when the paladin and his sister stepped past her.

Gyran paid no heed to her. The templar's war hammer swung in great arcs as he launched himself into the fray. Wherever his weapon struck, blood and metal erupted in great gouts, decorating the morning air with fragments of shattered material and specks of arterial spray. The human moved alongside Karduk, and his bludgeoning implement of war soon reaped a tally of slain Scourge that rivaled the cleaving axe of the orc. Vareesa paid no attention to all of this. The blood elf's eyes were locked only on the competition that had foolishly decided to stand beside her.

Eva smiled innocently back at the rogue, a gesture that the sin'dorei returned. The woman's brown hair did not fall past her chin and gave her a plain look that marred her pleasant features. A well-worn buckler was strapped to the paladin's forearm, and a one-handed mace rested in the grip of the other. Despite these armaments, the human was no warrior. There were pieces of plate armor covering her slim frame, but they were in near pristine condition and untouched by the blade. This one was a healer, a cleanser of diseases, and a caregiver to the weak and infirm.

The blood elf's daggers twirled expertly in her dainty hands, waiting for the impulse that would unleash them into the woman's frail flesh. Just one blow, she told herself. Just one, and she would have eliminated the threat to her future dominance over the giant forever. It was a tempting thought, but as endearing as it was, there were consequences she could not deal with. Not yet at least.

Hesitantly, the rogue halted the spinning of her stiletto blades. Assassination would have to wait. Her target noticed the cease in her motion and decided to comment.

"You are not joining the general melee," Eva pointed to the Argent Dawn warriors that followed the giant and were now embroiled in furious combat with the armored ghouls.

"No," Vareesa answered the human with false sweetness, "I am not."

The healer cocked her head to one side in puzzlement, and when she next spoke, it was with almost childlike naivety.

"Well, why not?"

The sin'dorei fought down the urge to roll her eyes. The questioning nature of humans irked her to no end. This one however, seemed to take that nature to new extremes.

"Because though I possess these two daggers," the blood elf smirked as she displayed the twin blades that were her pride and joy, "I am of the same profession as you."

Her answer brought a delighted light to Eva's eyes.

"Is that so! It is good to see another fellow mender of wounds here with us! If I may ask, in what way would you heal our wounded?"

The rogue's slim hand reached into one of the various pouches that hung from her waist. With a deft movement, she flung a roll of fabric towards the healer, which the woman caught with both hands. Eva blinked in puzzlement at spool of cloth she held in her palms before raising her head to regard the elf.

"It is a bandage," she spoke, "If I am not mistaken."

"It is," came Vareesa's smiling response.

The human's features hardened slightly.

"You mock me."

"Only because you are too easy to fool," the sin'dorei replied lightly as she stalked towards the giant and his embattled followers.

* * *

The spy had been right. The angel was not an angel. Missing were the lofty pinions that should have drifted from his back. No radiant halo floated above his head. No faultless face stared at the death knight with radiant eyes. Instead, Vauron was greeted by a set of tear-shaped visors the color of human blood, implanted on a snarling visage of ivory metal. Black warplate, gothic and menacing in style, covered the being from head to foot. A silver eagle adorned his chest, wings extended, and tattered strips of paper were plastered to his armor by wax seals. A growling blade, ugly and crude in appearance, was gripped in one tight fist, lethal spikes gently churning in unison and leaking freshly-spilled blood onto the ground. The other fist held a cumbersome gun, barrel still smoking from recent discharge. All together, the figure that stomped towards the knight resembled more a demon from the Twisting Nether than an angel of the Light.

Vauron grinned. His helm had been smashed from his face by a Crusader sword, and his broken-toothed smile was revealed for all to see. Now this would be a death worthy of a knight of Acherus.

The fallen templar dragged his mace behind him as he limped towards the raging combat, the flanged edges carving furrows in the dirt. This time, no Crusader attempted to accost him. The ravenous monsters he had turned his Dark Riders into had seen to that. The ghouls that had been summoned with the last vestiges of his necrotic magic were falling fast before the angel and his lackey's advance, but they had accomplished what he had set them do. Where once a solid block of Scarlet warriors stood in defiance against Scourge might, now only a scene of carnage and mayhem greeted his sight. Men and women fought in thin clusters, formation forgotten as they hacked, thrust, and chopped at the armored ghouls that hamstringed them from every direction. A gaping hole had been torn into the human lines, a widening gap that screamed out 'vulnerable' to the most inexperienced of generals. Brutus would be a fool if he did not make the most of this situation.

A leaping, wailing form that bore the warplate of a Dark Rider suddenly came apart in a gruesome explosion of ichor and shredded meat. Vauron did not wince as blood splattered onto his helm and leaked into the slit-like visor. Instead, he howled out a challenge to the source of the explosion.

"Angel! Face me if you dare!"

The whitened faceplate turned to regard him, and the death knight saw his own reflection, battered and wounded, in the false-eyes of the gruesome mask.

Ten steps away.

"I am Vauron, knight of Acherus, Champion of the Lich King! Come and face me as a warrior should!"

Nine steps away.

The being's massive gun rose in an equally massive fist, and the knight found himself staring into the blackness of a yawning barrel. Fear struck him then, as the thought of dying not from the blade but from a bullet speared into his conscience. That would not have been a good death.

Eight steps away.

And then, the angel lowered his weapon, and holstered it by his side. The growling, toothed sword clutched became a shrieking demon in the being's grip, splitting the air with its frantic whine.

Seven steps away.

The angel's free hand rose once more, armored digits beckoning the death knight closer. It was a gesture that could not be mistaken.

Six steps away.

"FOR THE LICH KING!" Vauron roared in exultation as he swung his mace back one-handed to strike.

"For the Emperor," came the angel's measured reply, a grating, static-laced sound more machine-like than man.

Five steps away.

And then everything went to hell.

The death knight staggered back. His sight swam. His limbs felt like they were made from lead. He glared down in fury, demanding to know why his body had suddenly become so weak. The reason why was apparent soon enough. His cuirass was damaged beyond repair, a crater smashed into its once faultless surface. Vauron could not comprehend this. The angel had not shot him. Nor did the angel strike him with his sword. So how?

Something blurred in the corner of his vision, and he twisted to avoid it. He almost succeeded. The crunch of splintering armor was heard as a skull-faced pauldron was torn from his warplate. The death knight staggered back once more, shaking his head to clear the dizziness that had afflicted him. When he next looked up, a new figure had interposed itself between him and the angel. Bearing a war hammer that rivaled his mace in bludgeoning power, the man pointed at him with one gloved finger.

"I, Gyran Truthseeker, paladin of the Argent Dawn, accept your challenge."

Vauron laughed, and coughed up a spurt of blood in the process. Wiping the coppery liquid from his lips, the fallen knight leered at his once brother-in-arms.

"Away from me, you glorified priest. My quarrel is not with you."

The paladin did not move from his position. The man's hands tightened around the grip of his maul, and his body hunched in a fighting stance.

"Your quarrel is with the people of Lordaeron," Gyran spoke, "and hence, your quarrel is with me."

Vauron laughed again and flexed his one remaining arm in anticipation for battle.

"Lordaeron has been dead for many years," the Scourge champion spat, "and it will remain dead as long as the Lich King sits upon his Frozen Throne."

"As long as the kingdom's people still live," the paladin answered stoically, "then Lordaeron still lives."

"I was once a hero like you," sneered the death knight, "so full of hope and compassion."

"Then you have fallen far."

For a moment, both warriors said nothing, and glared at each other, roving eyes searching for weakness. As the heat of battle faded and the last of the Dark Rider turned ghouls were impaled by Argent Dawn swords, the two men gripped tighter their instruments of war, and readied themselves for one another's death. Both were keenly aware of the black statue that stood unmoving mere paces away, ruby visors glaring at them in silent contemplation. The silence was broken by Vauron's spectral voice.

"You will get out of my way, priest."

"You will get your chance to face him when my body lies cold and motionless on the ground," Gyran replied with infuriating calm.

"I should have expected as much from an angel's servant," Vauron's face split into an ugly grin, "Do you heed his every order as though from the Light itself? Is his every word to you a sacred commandment?"

"You are wrong."

"What?"

"You are wrong," the paladin repeated without a trace of anger, "I am not his servant, and he is not my angel."

"Then why do you insist on impeding this rightful duel between two champions?"

"Because the souls of innocents that have fallen to your evil cry out for justice. Because the murdered people of this kingdom cry out for your death. Because all those you have wronged will not rest until you rest with them."

The knight's grin grew wider, and a mouthful of broken teeth shattered by Crusader blades sneered at the paladin.

"Many have tried to kill me in my service to the All-King. All have perished by my hand. What makes you think you will be successful?"

"I am the embodiment of Retribution," Gyran's eyes narrowed as he spoke, and the fingers that held tight his hammer drew even closer around the grip, "I am the war-cry of those who cannot speak. I am the sword of those who cannot lift a blade. I am the shield of those who cannot protect themselves. The Light calls out for your end, spawn of darkness. I will answer that call and banish you from the realms of the just."

The paladin advanced, his stride quick and resolute. His weapon sang in the wind as it traversed through the air, blunt edge descending towards the still grinning death knight.

"A worthy opponent," sighed Vauron in satisfaction as his maul met the paladin's with a resounding clang.

* * *

Like a crashing wave pouring forth from a broken dam, the zombies were unleashed towards the direction of the ruined Scarlet center. Hideous moans tore from the putrefied throats of the Scourge horde, ravaging the sanity of the human defenders hundreds of yards away. Some of the pestilent dead half lurched, half ran, the never-ending hunger driving their erratic limbs to perform better than most. The majority stumbled forward at a snail's pace, swaying drunkenly in their blind advance. Decaying jaws parted in agonizing slowness, revealing disease-ridden teeth and maggot-infested gums. Rotting arms stretched forth and grasped futilely at the empty air with clawed hands, despite the potential prey being some distance apart from the ragged ranks of mindless cadavers. Former soldiers, long-dead farmers, defiled merchants. Thousands of them blanketed the fields as they dragged themselves towards their victims at a relentless pace.

Cyndia Hawkspear watched the tide of undead lurch their way closer towards the formations of Crusaders and civilians, a faint frown upon her pale brow. The Dark Ranger's spindly bow was clasped tight in one hand, but she declined to use it. An arrow loosed here would draw unwelcome attention to her position, and she could not allow that before her duty to the Banshee Queen was done. The Forsaken was hidden from sight from both living and dead, sheathed in the shadows of fallen trees where none would venture to look. She had chosen her spot well, a place where she could keep an eye on her quarry and his followers. Her choice in terrain had paid dividends on this day, for she could witness the entire battle unfold without a hint of danger.

No. Not a battle. A slaughter. For stomping behind the mindless horde of drooling undead, came the pride and joy of the Scourge warhost. Abominations. Twelve feet tall hulks of walking destruction. Created on the slaughter tables of depraved flesh-surgeons, each was a mass of flabby meat and stitched skin. Faces even a mother would abhor leered from monstrous, misshapen skulls, where bestial eyes glared out from sunken sockets. The Dark Ranger's frown deepened. Though their appearances left much to be desired, Cyndia had seen enough of these creatures being operated on by Faranell and his cohorts deep in the Undercity's bowels to know just how deadly they were. Just one of these flesh golems could overpower a score of men and scatter them like ninepins. Now, eighty of such beasts lumbered forward on their stocky legs, great throaty roars spitting from their malformed maws.

If it weren't for the cold bleakness of the undeath that had settled over her unbeating heart, Cyndia would have felt pity, perhaps even compassion, for the humans that now stood to receive the monsters' charge. But that was a lifetime ago, when blood still flowed in her veins, when emotion still raged within her body, when she could still feel. Now… now… there was nothing. An empty void was what she was, and what she forever would be.

Her frown disappeared when her gaze left the abominations and focused on a lone figure encased in black plate. Taller than the Argent warriors that surrounded him, the being's cruel helm glared defiantly back at the encroaching wave of undeath. His sword was planted in the chest of a slain Dark Rider, gauntlet resting on the blade's smooth pommel. No hint of fear was apparent in his form, no trace of anxiety shuddered in his limbs. Calm radiated from the man as he stared into the tide of certain death.

Cyndia could not see past the faceplate he wore. But she sensed his composure was not all bluster. Which was curious, considering the gaggles of civilians that made up the majority of the Scarlet battle line were utterly stricken with fright. Men and women who had no business being on the battlefield gripped tight the tools of their trade, now impromptu weapons, and waited with tensed breath as the Scourge drew near. Even from this distance, the Ranger could see trembling legs and fear-wracked faces among the crowds of humans.

Some three thousand living against a host of five thousand Scourge. The fight would have been even if the three thousand had been soldiers instead of farmers and peasants. But they were not, and that simple fact puzzled her. The giant that led these humans was no fool. The piles of burnt Scourge corpses she had come across in her journey attested to this attribute. Yet, intelligence was wholeheartedly missing from this battle. To match the undead with over two-quarters of one's army a rabble of undisciplined civilians… it was madness. Insanity even.

Cyndia's sharp eyes left the throngs of peasants and once more focused on the unmoving giant. So confident in his posture. So courageous in his stance. A part of her keenly wished for the Scourge tide to wash away this giant in a crashing wave of grasping hands and biting maws. Where would his composure be when the relentless dead bit and clawed at his flesh? Where would his courage be when the relentless dead mobbed him from all sides and feasted upon his meat? It was a delectable thought, and the Forsaken keenly wished for it to come true. Still, a duty had been imposed upon her by the Dark Lady, and she would not allow herself to fail from petty wishes.

The blood of the living was what she was after, not the blood of some risen, tainted creature.

The Ranger sighed, and traced the grooves of her bow with her fingers. No doubt she will be forced to use it against the Scourge necromancers that would come to claim the giant's body…

* * *

"It is done," he says to me.

I look down at the motionless body and the ruined mess beneath the paladin's hammer that once was a head. I agree with him. It is considerably more than done.

"So it is," is what I say back to him.

Gyran nods, and heaves a great sigh. But the hatred that led him to destroy the fallen knight has not left him. Far from it. I can see the loathing for the undead burn in his pupils, and the odium for all things unholy tensing his limbs. My approval fights with my revulsion. The hatred that this man holds for the Scourge is almost beautiful.

"They are coming," whispers Eva as she moves to support her brother. Gyran shrugs her off and stomps forward a few steps, his back towards me.

"Terenas's Crown," he mutters, "That's a whole lot of them."

The ocular vision granted to me by the false-eyes in my helm concurs with the paladin's assessment. There is a whole lot of them. Many hundreds. Thousands at the very least. Rank after rank, line after line. They advance at a pitiful but relentless pace, their steady footfalls and guttural moans coming together as a nerve-wracking drone. I see some of the humans shudder as they stare into the slowly oncoming horde. Their fear comes close to making me retch.

"It is raining," murmurs a soft voice from behind me.

I look up, and am greeted with the first few droplets of a storm in the making. They patter off my faceplate, and leave tiny puddles of liquid on the white ceramite. These first few are soon joined by the rest, and all too quickly I find myself assailed by a torrent of rain. Suspicious men would call this an ill-omen.

The groans that my enhanced hearing has been filtering out grow in volume as the rain pelt unmercifully upon the collapsed forms of the wounded. Blood that once leaked in puddles now flow in growing rivers across the ground, the downpour tainting the crimson fluid and distilling its purity. The uninjured Scarlet warriors tend to their fallen comrades, and it is with sickness in my heart that I realize just how many in number the humans have lost to the lone Scourge knight.

"Rain during a battle is a sign of approaching doom," the same voice murmurs again, "Elune has withdrawn her favor from us all."

I do not dignify the night elf's mindless superstition with a reply. There is only one way to end all of this. I stomp forward, past the Argent Dawn soldiers and those Crusaders who are yet unwounded, and towards the encroaching mass of unholy creatures.

"Where are you going?" Keina asks in alarm.

My helm hides my sneer. The question has an obvious answer. The xeno just doesn't see it.

"The way forward is certain death," growls one of the Argent Dawn, raindrops battering against his armor and drenching the white tabard he wore.

My sneer grows wider. As if I have not faced death before.

"I think it would be more prudent if we stay here, no?" gasps Melrache in pain as his friend wraps a tattered cloth about his lacerated arm.

Prudent? Possibly. But the Emperor's Space Marines were never meant to be prudent.

"Have you gone mad?" utters Vareesa.

Sanity is for the weak.

"You have gone mad haven't you?" the elf speaks again, this time with horror in her voice, "Don't lie to us and say you don't fear that," she punctuates her words by pointing to the staggering lines of undead and the towering monsters behind them.

I fear no evil. I fear no death. I fear nothing, for the Emperor will protect me.

The chainsword clasped in my fist thrums into life, purring in delight as fresh blood oils its snarling mechanisms. My bolter rises in my grasp, and a targeting reticule locks onto the first deformed monstrosity it senses. I look back one more time, at the mixed ranks of Argent soldiers and Crusader warriors brought together in a time of need. I think they hear the smile in my tone as I speak.

"Will you not come with me?"

They hesitate. Throne of Terra. They hesitate. I see the terror in their eyes. Through the falling rain, I see the doubt that has enslaved their minds. Disgust gnaws at my insides. I try again.

_"Will you not come with me?"_

Again they do not answer. I cannot understand these humans. How can they not see that this is a chance for glory? How can they not see that this is an opportunity to be remembered in the annals of mankind? Their thoughts and emotions are as alien to me as the xenos that now stand with them. So, I try once more.

_"__**Will you not come with me?"**_

I expect silence. I am wrong. A deep voice answers me, a bellow too wrathful to be human.

"Lok'tar ogar!"

Karduk shoves his way to the front, shield raised and axe bared. He smashes his weapon hand against his chest as he shouts again.

"For the Horde!"

Two more of his kind, greenskins clad in the white of the Dawn, advance with him, mirroring his war cry with their own. I try to hide my shock. I am not entirely successful. I would have never thought it would be xenos like them who would rally to my side. Hesitantly, I clash my own weapon fist against my chest in a salute, that being the furthest I am willing to go in praising these aliens.

"Light damn the Horde," Melrache grins lopsidedly as he staggers to join the three orks before me, "For the Scarlet Crusade and for humanity!"

Vachon follows his wounded friend, and levels the hilt of his rapier in front of his face in a gesture of respect. The rain has turned his well-kept hair into a slurred mess and soaked the clothing behind his armor, but despite this, his posture still radiates a noble grimness.

"For the Emperor," his growled words brings a true smile to my lips.

Keina fits an arrow to her bow as she pads gracefully towards me. Her curiously delicate eyes lift until they lock with the twin visors of my helm.

"For Elune, hero," she whispers, "and for the Alliance."

Gyran Truthseeker strides past her, his hammer held proud and upright.

"For Lordaeron," he says in a low growl, "and for Lord Uther."

"What my brother just said," smiles Eva as she takes her place beside her kinsman, wiping streaks of rainwater from her face.

"For vengeance," mutters another voice I did not expect. Malicia stalks to join those gathered before me. Her clothed frame trembles as she halts, but there is a conviction I cannot describe hidden within her soft eyes. "For vengeance," she whispers again, and the staff I thought was merely ornamental blazes with coruscating flickers of energy in her hands.

One by one, the warriors of the Scarlet Crusade and the Argent Dawn step into the growing crowd, and offer their swords to me. Symbolism. It is the universal way of pronouncing their loyalty and their devotion to me and my cause. There is something momentous about this, something I feel yet cannot describe. I do not think the feeling is blasphemous.

Vareesa is the last one to come forward. My hearing picks up the word 'insane' being muttered again and again by her, and I resist the urge to laugh out loud. If only she knew. If only she and all the others knew. But that would, as humans like to say, spoil the surprise.

I turn, and the crowd of warriors in red and white are replaced by a wretched line of plague-ridden creatures. The chuckle that I have been holding in now comes out in full force. Guttural and deep, my laughter sounds. Those that surround me glance at each other in confusion. They must surely think me mad. It is with difficulty that I curb my amusement, but despite this, my mirth is still apparent as I roar into the vocalizers of my helm.

"Herod! First Company! Your people calls! Will you answer?"

Fifty voices respond to me, each sounding of steel and death.

_"WE ARE CALLED TO SERVE! AND SERVE WE SHALL!"_

_

* * *

_

Whitemane turned to look, as did many others, when the chorus of shouted words reached her ears. She gasped in shock at the sight, confusion and joy intermixing freely within her pounding breast. She was not alone in displaying her emotions. Men and women, who not seconds ago had been gripped in the throes of fear, now stared agape at the figures that strode from the hazy mist.

Fifty-one in number. Bedecked entirely in plates of polished steel, the Scarlet Champions marched in unison for the human battle line. The downpour that afflicted the masses of civilians and soldiers did little to hamper the advancing warriors. Tiny streams of rainwater snaked their way down the massive slabs of metal that served as chestplates, and dripped from looming pauldrons of lamellar steel. The red and white tabards of the Crusade clung to each armored form, drenched too thoroughly to flap in the wind. Monstrous helms sat unyieldingly across broad shoulders, hiding the face of the men that wore them from view. Kite-shields adorned with the image of a double-headed eagle were strapped to plate encased arms, rivulets of water running down their smooth surfaces. Legs sheathed in crimson greaves propelled each warrior closer to their objective, boots of plate grinding down upon the soil that was now more akin to mud.

Like a wall of steel, the greatest warriors the Crusade had to offer stomped into the disorganized ranks of those they were sworn to protect.

Farmer and warrior alike scrambled back as the Champions strode past. Their armor made them appear taller, broader, stronger. Made them appear more than just men. Whitemane's attention shifted from the figures themselves and onto the armaments they bore. Great warhammers, clasped securely in plated fists, swayed with each momentous step. Across their blunt edges, flickering garlands of energy leapt and danced. Startled, the Lady Commissar peered closer, and saw the rune-etchings engraved upon each maul. Her eyes swept to the Champions themselves again in excitement, and there, upon each suit of armor, numerous arcane sigils winked and flashed back at her. She was no practitioner of enchantments, but knew enough about them to recognize what her eyes told her. Strength. Vitality. Endurance. Stamina. And a dozen more, all inscribed upon the warplate these men now wore.

"Magnificent, aren't they?" an energized voice came from beside her. Whitemane swallowed, unable to make her thoughts known through speech.

"One night was all we had," Doan said again, his garments sticking to his frame from the rain, "But by the Light, we did the Crusade proud with this!" he pointed a finger at the marching Champions, and the smile that was plastered over his features was filled with pride.

"How?" she managed.

"Enchantments," the Arcanist explained eagerly, "Hundreds of them spread over fifty-one suits of armor. Made so that each man inside his armor will perform feats more than what is humanly possible! I thought it was an impossible task for such a short time, but the Emperor willing, we completed it all in accordance with the angel's wishes."

"The angel?" Whitemane murmured, still unwilling to take her eyes off the imposing figures that were her finest warriors.

"Yes, the angel. I told him the enhancements that could be offered through the ways of magic, and he was most intrigued by my explanations. It took a while to convince him that we were safe from demonic possession, but in the end, he was willing to work with us in ways of combating the Scourge. But in all honesty, I had no idea his plans would result in this!"

"What does he call them?"

"Pardon?"

"What does he call our Champions?"

Doan's smile grew wider.

"Terminators, my lady."

"Terminators," she whispered as though if the word she repeated was sacred.

"Aye! Terminators! With Thunder Hammer and Storm Shield, these mightiest warriors of humanity will smite the evil from our lands!" the Arcanist intoned with a reverential timbre in his tone.

"And who leads them?"

The mage pointed to a single figure in the midst of the line, the only warrior whose weapon was an axe.

"Herod, of course!"

* * *

The Argent Dawn and what was left of the Crusader center parted ranks to allow the towering figures passage, awe evident across their features. Fifty-one men cleared the broken formation of their brothers-in-arms, rain lashing against their steel faceplates, the moans of undead monstrosities assailing their armored forms. Heavy arms rose pulsating weapons in unison towards the approaching foe, a gesture in challenge towards the mindless dead. A booming sound came from each close-visored helm, deep and malignant, and laced with barely-contained wrath.

"_THE TAINT IS HERE! CORRUPTION ABOUNDS IN MORTAL FLESH! WE WILL PURGE IT ALL WITH FAITH AND FURY!" _

Boots dug into the softened ground, propelling armored legs into motion. The Terminators did not run. They did not charge. They walked. Striding forth in great steps, the Champions of the Scarlet Crusade met the waves of groaning Scourge with their Thunder Hammers swinging.

"_WE ARE THE HAMMER OF THE EMPEROR! WE CRUSH THOSE FOUND WANTING BENEATH OUR BLOWS! WE SMITE THE ENEMIES OF MANKIND WITH RIGHTEOUS ZEAL!"_

Fifty hammers rose and fell, descending on putrefied heads and demolishing them in flashes of discharging energy. Fifty sagging corpses collapsed, folding in upon themselves as their killers marched past. Fifty-one voices rose together in one crescendo of noise, continuing the litany and drowning out the rasping moans of the dead.

"_WE ARE THE PROTECTORS OF HUMANITY! OUR FLESH IS THE SHIELD OF MANKIND! OUR ARMOR IS THE BARRIER AGAINST THE HEATHEN!" _

Storm Shields slammed into malformed faces, breaking noses, cracking jaws, and splintering skulls. Withered hands reached out and clawed at their tormentors, but were arrested by layers of unyielding steel. The Thunder Hammers came down again, smashing into the undead and obliterating them in great spurts of blood. A lone axe hacked in brutal fashion amongst the swinging hammers, parting meat from bone, and granting sweat release to those it touched.

"_WE ARE THE SLAYERS OF THE CORRUPT! OUR FISTS STAIN RED WITH THE BLOOD OF THE TREACHEROUS! OUR WEAPONS DELIVER RIGHTFUL PUNISHMENT TO THE BLASPHEMOUS!" _

The Terminators advanced. Slowly, gradually, but they advanced. They forced deeper and deeper into the Scourge mass, their enchanted mauls sweeping in powerful arcs. Explosions of gore followed wherever the hammers swept, zombies bursting apart as lethal energies were unloaded into their flesh. Fifty-one men against a hundred times their number. Fifty Thunder Hammers falling in unison again and again, supported by Herod's blurring axe, carved a bloody path into the undead horde. The black ichor that leaked from scores of slain Scourge intermixed with the falling rain and wet soil to churn the ground into a bloody quagmire. The groans of dying monsters was like a constant drone, but that was only a backdrop compared to the roaring voices of the Scarlet Champions.

"_WE ARE THE FIRST INTO BATTLE! THE LAST TO LEAVE! WE ARE THE CHOSEN OF THE EMPEROR! FIRST COMPANY! AND NONE SHALL STAND IN OUR PATH!"_

A path had been cut into the undead swarm, but there were always more. As one fell, flopping raggedly to the ground, three more lurched forward to take its place, desperate hands clawing and scraping against the metal plate that concealed their meals. The Terminators found themselves beset on all sides by this unrelenting foe, dozens crowding around each man, and tearing futilely against his protection with bloodied fingertips.

Fifty hammers rose again for the umpteenth time.

"_WE ARE THE THUNDER!"_ boomed the Champions as one, their hammers falling not on decomposing heads but instead on the muddied soil.

A concussive wave swelled from the ground where the Thunder Hammers had struck, buffeting the swarming zombies with tremendous force. Gaunt forms were flung from their feet, and sent hurtling into the air like rag dolls.

"_WE BRING THE LIGHTNING!"_

Whipping tendrils of unleashed energy leapt from the blunt head of each hammer, dancing across the earth before lashing out at the nearest of the staggering undead. The streaks of arcane lightning cackled as they did their deadly work, wrapping around their cadaverous victims and reducing them to charred bones.

In the wake of broken bodies and incinerated corpses, fifty hammers were lifted once more by vengeful hands, and the litany continued from fifty-one mouths.

"_NO ENEMY IS SAFE FROM OUR WRATH! NO FOE CAN HIDE FROM OUR GAZE! OUR HAMMERS ARE THE BANE TO ALL THOSE WHO OPPOSE HIS WILL!"_

Undead forms swayed drunkenly as they advanced to meet the resolute line of plate-encased warriors. And then they fell, bodies torn and sundered by wrathful blows.

"_OUR DEVOTION IS STRONGER THAN ANY STEEL! FORGED FROM THE FIRES OF WAR! CRAFTED UPON THE ANVIL OF BATTLE! NONE CAN WITHSTAND OUR FAITH!"_

Frustrated moans tore from countless throats as the waves of zombies sought to sake their unholy hunger. They were silenced by falling hammers that obliterated all before their path. The Terminators stepped over the ruins of their foe, and met the next wave with their mauls swinging.

"_OUR HATRED IS PURE! SHAPED BY UNDYING LOATHING FOR THE ENEMIES OF MAN! NURTURED BY TEN MILLENIA OF DEFIANCE! WE WILL REDEEM YOU ALL IN THE FIRES OF OUR HATE!"_

Fifty-one arms thrust forward, propelling Storm Shields into the ranks of snarling undead. Putrefied limbs flailed at the slabs of hardened steel, and left bloodied scratch-marks where they had struck. The Champions pushed, crushing the mindless ghouls into their cohorts, and smashed their hammers into the crowded mass. Blood and gore splattered onto crimson warplate as garlands of lightning reached out from the head of each hammer and embraced the stricken forms of the risen dead. Herod hewed left and right with his treasured war-axe, decapitating staggering zombies, and leaving their corpses among the shattered ruins of their kin.

"_WE ARE THE VANGUARD OF DOOM! WE ARE THE BRINGERS OF DEATH!"_

Plated boots stomped down in slow unison, driving wounded Scourge into the ground, and grinding them into the unforgiving mud.

"_WE ARE THE TEMPEST OF WOES! WE ARE THE STORM OF DESTRUCTION!" _

Thunder Hammers smashed into diseased flesh, and ended blasphemous life with every blow. Their wielders roared over the din of battle, their united voices swelling over the gurgling cries of the dead and drowning out the claps of unleashed energy.

"_WE ARE YOUR END! OUR GIFT TO YOU IS ANNHILIATION! REJOICE IN YOUR COMING OBLIVION!"_

_

* * *

_Fifty-one men drove into the undead horde, and shattered it apart.

At the forefront of the Scarlet battle line, a black clad figure turned his ivory helm back to look at those behind him. Rain fell around and on him, pattering off the immense armor he wore. A thrumming chainblade pointed to the ensuing battle, gesturing towards the feat of heroism being performed before their very eyes. The voice that came out from the cruel mask made a demand that none were willing to refuse.

"Will you not come with me?" asked the angel once more.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well… four weeks before an update? A new record! But hopefully one I won't repeat. College, work, and a hefty dose of the dreaded writer's block have prevented me from presenting this chapter to my faithful readers. I apologize for that and wish for the contents of this chapter to make amends.**

_Sabbat: I'm glad you enjoyed it on your second read!_

_Darth Cruel: Thank you!_

_Liberius: You'll find a good amount of references if you read closely enough!_

_Big Fan: I'm pretty much in league with your thoughts here. A Space Marine could probably feel something for the opposite sex, but it will take some time, and he will probably have no idea what said feeling is._

_Battosai25: Thanks!_

_JagerPanzer: Pretty much. The civilians in the baggage train will slow the Crusaders considerably, much to Avarian's distaste._

_Sir Lagginton: Remember that a dreadnought in the fluff, has to be able to keep up with the Space Marine assault vehicles such as Rhinos and Razorbacks to be effective. While they certainly can't run, they most likely are able to "shuffle" rather quickly on the battlefield. A dreadnought and a Fel Reaver are on two different levels, my friend. A Fel Reaver is around a Warhound in height, if not taller. Though a lascannon will no doubt do damage to it, chances are that it won't be sufficient to bring it down._

_Guardianofthebox: The Warcraft fluff, and how humans/elves/orcs came into being are actually already set in stone by Blizzard. In my opinion, the Warcraft background, while less vast, is more detailed than the universe Warhammer is set in. That being said, this story's interpretation on the history of Azeroth's races, will follow Blizzard's interpretation._

_19Gaspar90: They did indeed!_

_One quick observation: Ahhh… but what if they are not xenos, but something else entirely? _

_Salle1980: Thank you!_

_Hammerchuckery: Your question is one that I cannot answer. Not now at least. To do so would spoil the story's plot, and as you can imagine, I am loathe to do that. In terms of the workings of a lasgun, I honestly have no clue. All we know in terms of 40k fluff, is that they are extremely durable and reliable. That, and they shoot a "highly focused beam of light". Artillery will also be mentioned in this fic, but they will only be what the Crusaders have in their arsenal._

_Alien2063: It is a reference to Kingdom of Heaven. You'll find many references in this story if you look closely enough. And thank you for the praise!_

_Tri-bladed scythe: You'll find that women aren't generally attracted to 40k as men are. The minority that are, however, will generally be able to kick our collective asses in tabletop._

_The Amazing chicken dinner: From Dawn of War actually. The Force Commander shouts out: "NO RETREAT! NO SURRENDER!"_

_Sarge51: Thanks!_

_Pinto: I have glimpsed the story you recommended before, and it is quite good._

_Dusel: Well, if I were Avarian, I would be rushing in to protect the civilians at every opportunity. But then again, my viewpoint as well as yours, are human. What I'm trying to do with the main character, is make him appear as inhuman as possible, while still retaining a semblance of humanity. In my opinion, a Space Marine's duty is to protect humanity, not humans. I would imagine these guys aren't the ones willing to throw themselves in the path of danger to save one life. They are more the type that sacrifice the few to save the many. This is certainly what I hope to achieve with Avarian's viewpoint._

_Thekilleregglord: Lasguns are fun and all, but Avarian isn't certainly conjure them up from his behind! :P_

_Velocityshade: I pretty much concur with your assessment of an IG flak jacket. In terms of how Space Marines see xenos, I also agree with you. Hardcore chapters such as the Black Templars would most likely shoot them on sight, whereas the less adherent ones would hold their fire until they have a reason. _

_Starspawn07: The Mongols did have their own heavy cavalry, but only used them when their horse archers had reduced the majority of the enemy to pin-cushions._

_CelticReaper: Thanks!_

_Numbuh six-sixtysix: Thank you!_

_Stoned Kola: Much wisdom is to be gleamed from a character such as Ash. :P_

_Emperor Chronicler: You ask questions I cannot answer my friend! The plot remains shrouded in the thickest of secrecies, and I will not divulge them now no matter the punishment! :P_

_Shas: He just reads the Codex Astartes a lot in his spare time…_

_Cirex Review: Pretty much. While there are some PDF elements that could give the IG a run for their money, the majority are considerably weaker than their Guard counterparts._

_Night Hunter MGS: Well, don't be so sure that all of them are spies… As for the speeches, some of them take inspirations from the movies/books I've seen/read. However, the one you recently read was pretty much made up by myself. In my spare time, I like to read a lot regarding ancient military battles, so some of the tactics you see in this fic are a reference to them. And I agree wholeheartedly with your comments in general to the professionalism of the Guard._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: I like lasguns too, but remember Avarian doesn't have an armory stashed inside his crates to equip a full company of Guardsmen… _

_LunaticPandora1: Well, this fic isn't a crack fic, and though there will be humor, it will be strictly in-universe._

_Ranger24: Game mechanics =/= things as they should be in real life. A lot of the things you see in WoW are strictly in-game, and shouldn't be applied to Warcraft lore. As for my thoughts on the IG, Night Hunter MGS has vocalized them quite nicely._

_Xynth: Writer's block did have an impact on the delay of this chapter, but I have thankfully cleared it! Titans are something I don't want suddenly appearing in this story. They might appear, but if they do, it will be well within reason._


	44. Thunder and Lightning, Bolt and Flame

Chapter 43

Herod, Champion of the Scarlet Crusade, lifted the mass of metal and steel that was his arm, and swung it horizontally towards a shambling figure. The axe clasped resolutely in his lamellar gauntlet blurred, and scythed through the zombie's frail flesh in a heartbeat. For the hundredth time, he inwardly marveled at the speed at which he could now move his limbs, and the inherent agility that was bestowed upon him by the winking runes etched upon his armored frame. Two more of the foe lurched to take the place of their fallen kin, and his body moved with inhuman quickness to meet them. One was nearly hacked in two; his cleaver hewing through the wretched thing's body before burying itself in the undead's hipbone. Like bark peeling off a tree, the monster split open, two even sides coming apart in a mad welter of blood. As the first zombie sank to its knees, its sundered form sagging, Herod's other arm was already in motion. The Storm Shield lived up to its namesake, and flung the creature back in a flash of whipping energies as it connected with the beast's face.

He grinned, and fiercely at that. Now this was how a war should be fought. With thunder in one hand and lightning in the other.

The claps of discharging Thunder Hammers sounded around him as First Company plied their grisly trade. Behind his bulky frame were the members of Squad Illion. Ten in all, they smote undead creatures into smoking ruin with their enchanted mauls, and ground toppled frames into the bloodied muck. A few steps behind came proud Gerald and his team, hammers swinging in rhythmic fashion. Worrick led ten more, protecting Gerald's flank with his sword-brothers, and pummeling moaning Scourge into ruined biological matter. Tilneras, knight-templar, sang a simple hymn as he killed, the tune a remembrance to his order and the time when the warriors of the Silver Hand spanned the furthest reaches of Lordaeron. His men sang with him, their gruff voices coming out muffled but made clear and amplified by the enchantments stitched across their throats. Last came a figure whose difference from the ones it led was hidden from view by the genderless armor it wore. Yvette, the only woman amidst the fifty-one Champions, smashed her way through a pack of staggering beasts, and proved that sex alone was no definer of men.

Fifty-one warriors. Fifty-one former knights of the Silver Hand. Given weapons wielded by gods. Draped in protection fit for angels. Terminators. First Company.

The horde of Scourge was unrelenting. Young Davick of Squad Gerald was dragged down by a dozen of the enemy. Putrefied claws scrabbled against his armor, but failed to penetrate the enhanced suit. A woman, barely in her twenties and ravaged by decay, crawled over the struggling Terminator and grasped his helm between her hands. With a phlegm-filled gurgle, the zombie bit down, her rotten teeth grinding futilely against the crimson metal. A Thunder Hammer smashed into the woman's chest, obliterating her torso in a flash of lightning and cast her smoking limbs into the unholy ranks that came behind.

Gerald laughed as he did the Emperor's Work, hammer descending on luckless heads as two of his squad hauled Davick back up.

Howling, a mob of undead swarmed around Squad Tilneras, and grappled with the Thunder Hammers held in each of the ten gauntlets. Scores of frenzied limbs wrapped around the thick weapon arms, pulling and wrenching in hopes of dislodging the armaments they bore. Still singing the lay, Tilneras and his men banished the risen dead with their free fists, and piled corpses around their feet all the same.

The plate-clad warriors of Yvette's squad called to one another over the noisome din. Boasts and challenges were thrown out; demands for kill-counts, arguments over which kill belonged to who, and faint joking laughter when a boast went unmet. Yvette smiled at this. She alone knew that the number of Scourge ended by her hammer eclipsed all others.

Illion went under, bowled over by a mass of seething undead. As revolting frames crawled and tread over his armored body, the old war hound spat and cursed from his prone position. Insult after insult, slur after slur, the man matched the groans of the dead with profanity directed against their mothers and their mother's mothers. Swinging Thunder Hammers pulverized the heathens clawing against the venerable warrior's warplate, and Illion found himself heaved up on his feet by three of his fellows. No thanks sounded from his close-visored helm. Far from it. An angry tirade leapt from Illion's mouth, demanding to know why his men were wasting time assisting him when they could be killing more Scourge. The men grinned amongst themselves. The old man was forever war-hungry. Still cursing, Illion led his squad forth and punished the ravenous wave for their audacity.

Worrick and his squad found themselves outpaced by the others. But that did not trouble the seasoned veteran. Whereas the thirst for battle afflicted his brothers-in-arms, he was altogether a more tranquil soul. Content to let the others launch themselves into the waves of moaning dead, Worrick struck down mewling stragglers with his Thunder Hammer and guarded his brethren's backs.

The zombie horde buckled as the Terminators drove onwards. They crowded against one another in their eagerness to feed, their simple intelligences ignoring the near-impenetrable armor their meals wore. First Company met them as they did before, and left their smoking carcasses in the gore-drenched mud.

Davick, always the unlucky one, was separated from his comrades. Without warning, he found himself lifted off his feet. With a faint cry, the young warrior was flung into the air, arms flailing. He crashed down ten feet away, landing in a jangled heap. Worrick hurried to the fallen man's aid, and his squad drove away the few approaching undead that sought to sate their unholy hunger. As Davick was helped up by members of his team, the veteran pointed his hammer towards what had sent the young man flying.

"Flesh Golems!"

Bellowed roars drowned out the groans of the swaying undead, carried over the steady clapping of Thunder Hammer on flesh, and finally caused Squad Tilneras to halt in their song.

"How many?"Illion demanded, his tone eager and vengeful, "How many are there?"

"At least four score."

"Eighty," breathed the war hound, "Eighty," then he started chuckling, "A fine number. A worthy number."

The first abomination loomed over the horde of its lesser brethren, deep howls coming from its twisted maw. It struck left and right with the falchion it held in one meaty paw, scything down the zombies nearest in its impatience to close with the foe. Two palsied, hook-attached limbs jutted from its back, each rising above its broad shoulders like the stinger of a scorpion. Monstrous and ugly, the brute pounded a massive fist against its flabby chest in challenge to the advancing Terminators.

"That one is mine," came Illion's amplified voice.

"Old man," laughed Gerald from some paces away, "Do not be so foolish. Leave the most taxing of work to your younger's and betters."

"I might be old, but the edge of this hammer certainly isn't!" As if to punctuate his boast, the old warrior smashed his maul against a trio of staggering dead and sent them flying back into the crowd of their fellows.

"Quit bickering you two," the amused tone of Yvette sounded from off to the left, "The undead aren't killing themselves, you know," the warrior woman gestured towards the roaring Scourge, "And besides, the abomination is mine."

"I called it first!" cried out Illion in consternation.

"Yvette is right, I'm afraid," Tilneras, always the gentleman, said as he exploded a gurgling zombie with a swipe from his hammer, "As the saying goes: 'ladies first'."

"Age before beauty," Illion shot back.

"I would rather have the beauty than the age," quipped Worrick from somewhere in the back.

Herod laughed at that, though the business of carving through the snarling bestial thing in front of him was far from funny. He liked all of this. The boasts. The jests. The competition. The brotherhood among the fifty men and one woman who carried the title of First Company. Still, he was the Champion of the Scarlet Crusade, and what he said the others would do well to listen. A man with blood streaking from eyeless sockets came at him, lurching forward on emaciated legs. Herod rammed his shield into the creature's stomach, and caused it to reel back into the ranks of its cohorts. At the same time his axe clove down, he yelled at the top of his lungs.

_"The beast is mine!"_ his voice boomed like thunder to friend and foe alike, and caused the nearest zombies to stagger in confusion.

"The Champion has spoken," Tilneras answered with reverence laden in his tone.

"So he has," remarked Gerald as he bashed in a zombie's face with his fist.

"And what he says is law," spoke Worrick over the din.

"As tradition dictates," added Yvette as she swept a man-thing from its feet with her cackling Thunder Hammer.

"Well, I didn't vote for him," Illion grumbled.

Herod grinned and smashed aside the pack of groaning zombies that was nearest to the abomination. Axe blurring in bloody arcs, the Champion of the Scarlet Crusade rendered the Scourge that surrounded him limbless and lifeless in the churned muck. Fifteen paces away, the Flesh Golem spotted him, and howled a ragged warcry towards the still raining heavens. The corpulent creature waddled towards him, its thickset legs carrying it forward with surprising speed.

"You are mine," Herod spoke again, this time in a whisper that no one else would hear.

"Wrong, Champion," came a grating, metallic voice. A wave of heat passed over Herod, and the greatest warrior the Crusade had to offer was forced to bow his head in an undignified way to stave off the blistering aftereffects. He chanced a glance at the abomination, and found that it had simply ceased to exist. In the foul creature's place were specks of ash slowly drifting to the ground, nearly invisible in the downpour.

A looming shape strode past him, the weapon in its hands alight with an eerie green glow.

_"The beasts are mine,"_ said the Iron Angel as he raised his gun to fire again.

* * *

It was a perfect shot. Struck in the midriff, the fat Scourge had been enveloped from head to toe in the immense heat and incinerated in a heartbeat. Darthan would have been proud.

The plasma gun whines as it recharges, the magnetic coils strung along its back turning from a throbbing green color to a mesmerizing red. Raindrops pelt across its surface as they do to my armor, raising hissing veils of steam whenever they strike the weapon's glowing coils.

I brace my feet against the sewage the ground has become, and pull the trigger once more.

With the brilliance of an erupting sun flare, the barrel of the plasma gun spits out its fiery payload. The Argent Dawn and Scarlet warriors that followed my advance cry out in shock and shield their eyes from the blinding light. A smart thing to do. Stare at the discharges from plasma weaponry for too long, and it could fry one's optic nerves. I am more fortunate than them, as the visors in my helm allow me to see through such discharges without the risk.

An ogre of a brute, nearly twice as I am tall, is waddling forward to meet First Company in battle. The blast takes it full in the chest. I can hear the beginnings of a panicked scream as the scorching heat strips the flesh from bone. Ossified remains last no longer, turning into biological dust as the deadly warmth lingers. All that is left are two corpulent limbs, charred and smoking. Legs the creature no longer needs.

Beautiful.

Heat sinks built into the weapon rush to dissipate the mounting temperatures. Warning displays blare inside my helm, but I ignore them for now. As long as the venerable armament is in no danger of overheating, then there is no danger in me continuing to use it to dispense the Emperor's Wrath.

For a week this weapon has sat idle and unused in the container crates latched to my Land Speeder. No sacred oils to ease its noble machine-parts. No prayers said to its lingering spirit. No tech-adepts to minister to its needs and wants. For days it has borne these insults without complaint. And now, its fury needs release.

A fat, howling Scourge with hooks grafted to its limbs is sheared in two, one side of it as normal as its revolting form allows, the other a scorched mess of fused flesh. The zombies that lurched by its side suffer from the plasma blast as well. Buffeted by murderous heat, their decomposing frames have caught fire. The scent of burning flesh wafts into my nostrils.

They are not the only ones to be affected. I see some of the Crusaders and Argent Dawn soldiers stagger from the plasma discharge's aftereffects. Though I have kept my aim careful, the weapon is still temperamental. Such is the hazard in using armaments unblessed and unconsecrated by the Techmarines of the chapter.

The brute nearest to its denuded kin blink in piggish astonishment. It sees the ruined body of its brethren and the flailing, wailing figures wreathed in fire around it. And then it dies as well, bathed in hot plasma. Skinless, fleshless, boneless, the beast's ashes are scattered by a gust of wind and whipped back into the faces of its snarling cohorts.

Warnings flash and sound behind my faceplate. This time I heed the message they bear.

I lose the grip my trigger hand has on the plasma gun, and reach for the bolter clamped by magnetic couplings to my hip. In that short span of time, my gaze encompasses the warriors of the First Company and the death they so eagerly dole out. Clad in bulky plate the hue of crimson, they match the veterans of an Astartes Chapter in name only. There are no other similarities. They possess none of the augmentations every Space Marine contains in his enhanced body. Their minds are unaltered by the psycho-conditioning that makes us what we are. They can never feel the sense of holy duty that propels us, nor the sacred hate that drives us to destroy the foe. They are mortals. Mere men encased in pseudo-power armor, they are not worthy to bear the title I have bequeathed to them.

They are called Terminators, true, but only because there is a passing resemblance.

As my gauntlet leaves the cooling plasma gun still cradled in my other arm, I discern a curious deficiency in the way these men fight. There is no coherence, no teamwork, even though they have been placed in squads. Each warrior batters a path through the horde of undead by his lonesome, with no thought of protecting their fellows. It is only when one of them is swallowed by a swarm of frenzied dead do they come to each other's aid. They fight as individuals. Again, I am reminded that these former Champions of the Crusade are not the Astartes they mimic.

No Space Marine fights alone. We are bonded together as one the day we are implanted with our primarch's genetic legacy. Brotherhood is why we are the finest humanity has to offer. And it is that reason why a hundred of us are worth ten times that many of normal human soldiers. We are wolves. Pack-hunters. Together we prevail. Together we fight. Together we die. These humans are not. They are like the shaggy furred bears of Occludus, each and every one of them. Waging a ferocious war by their lonesome, despite their fellows by their sides. Though their fighting prowess is commendable, they will never be the Angels they seek to emulate.

How easy it is to detest them.

An obese monster with flaps of skin dangling from its face surges forward in a lumbering run. An oversized sledgehammer is swung by a meaty fist towards a battling Terminator. The man encased in the false-suit raises his Storm Shield to block the descending maul, profanity spitting from his helm. That would be Illion then. I remember his craggy features from the night before, alight with battle-thirst. I curse him for a fool now. Although the protection afforded by the pseudo-power armor is considerable, the blunt trauma from the falling hammer would kill the aged warrior. His flesh and bone is still human, despite what he himself thinks.

My bolter, freshly clasped in my hand, booms twice, and thumps the monstrosity a full three steps back. The beast roars, black ichor pouring from the two craters gouged in its chest. My third bolt finds its face, and turns its head into a blood-filled basin.

I hear Illion curse again, and my lips twist into a bemused smile as my hearing picks out the words the old warrior chose to use.

A fresh atrocity takes the place of its blasphemous kin, shoving past the headless body on trunk-like legs. I slay it with a four round burst, turning its chest inside out and scattering the dissected organs its body holds in a meter wide expanse. It topples, and flattens half a dozen zombies beneath its immense bulk.

The Terminator that was fending off the creature's advance turns and raises a clenched fist against his breastplate before launching himself back into the fray. I do not return the salute. How tiring it is to babysit these false-Astartes. My twin hearts long for the fervor of battle, and every inch of my body aches to wage war as a Space Marine should. Without hesitation and without doubt. Instead, I am forced to provide fire support for the First Company, lest their zealous assault carries them into striking range of the corpulent Scourge beasts. It is galling, to be chained like this to warriors who do not deserve the name they carry, but it is a work I must do. It was I who made them into what they are, and it will be I who ensure their success on the battlefield.

Mortals call this responsibility. We Astartes call it duty.

The alarms that trill inside my helm finally abate, and I holster my bolter in order to operate the rapidly-cooling plasma gun. The weapon's humming coils light up to a malevolent crimson as I pull the trigger, and a howling abomination with spikes protruding from its malformed cranium dies in an explosion of white fire. The undead that lurch alongside the creature wail mindlessly as their flesh becomes charred and blackened from the tremendous heat. Some fall, crumbling into piles of loose limbs. Most do not, and continue forward despite the grievous burns they have suffered. Good. Let the Champions earn the armor and armaments they now bear.

Rain pelts against my armor and cleanses heathen blood from my carapace.

I fire again and again and again, alternating in turn between bolt and plasma when the latter begins to overheat. I aim for the largest of the Scourge, the ones that would inflict the most harm to First Company and the warriors that now fight by their side. With bolter and flame, I cast their worthless carcasses to the ground, to be trampled by the uncaring feet of their lesser kin.

Perception fades, replaced by concentration on the task at hand. It is like a dream, in this state, to see what is happening all around you, yet be entirely focused on your own work. I see Keina, the sole xeno that has somewhat earned my respect, drive one of her arrows tip first into the eye socket of a growling man-thing. Without waiting for the zombie to fall, she yanks the shaft out and fits it against the groove of her bow. The night elf lets loose at close range, and her arrow hurls back a decomposing creature not three paces away. I see Gyran Truthseeker place an armored foot against the heaving chest of a maimed Scourge. The man chants, of all things, a prayer of forgiveness, as he raises his war hammer for the kill. I feel the urge to shake my head. How compassion weakens him. I see the ork, all black plate and unbridled fury, loose its axe in the shoulder of a mewling woman. The cleaver buries deep, too deep, and is lodged within the zombie's putrid flesh. Snarling, the xeno floors the Scourge with a bone-shattering punch to its nose, and decapitates it on the ground with a downwards strike from its jagged shield. Such bloody single-mindedness is almost praiseworthy. I see Vareesa ducking and weaving past a small pack of risen dead, her daggers peeling flesh and meat from brittle bone. She takes her time in slaying the monstrosities, picking out the weakest in the crowd and darting in to end its unholy life with surgical strikes before dashing back out. I see Malicia, striding towards a gaggle of the staggering dead, her robes hugging tightly around her slim frame from the rain. A stream of blackish flame spews from her upraised hands like the muzzle of a flamer, coating the groaning monsters in sorcerous fire. Were I not so engrossed in my task, then I would do more than to just chastise her for this willful blasphemy. I see scarlet clad forms intermix with those dressed in white, petty hatreds forgotten as they face this common enemy. Swords flash and blur, and I cannot tell if their wielders are Crusaders or soldiers of the Argent Dawn.

I take note of the details that surround me, but do not pay them any heed. Such is the Astartes way of war.

A malformed brute with an extra pair of limbs jutting from its sagging chest nears an oblivious Terminator. My plasma gun discharges, sending unbearable heat towards the warbling abomination. The creature roars as it feels its skin prickle at the murderous warmth, and then howls in dismay as the tissue turns to a blackened crisp. It flails for a split-second, fat arms thrashing, panicking at its imminent doom, before white heat engulfs it in a scorching embrace.

The beast's howls drift into my ears, followed by a far less grating sound.

Eva drops to her knees in the muck a few paces in front of me, her gloved hands covering her eyes. Her cries are filled with fright as she scrabbles at her face with her fingertips.

"I can't see!" her alarmed words ring out again and again, "I can't see!"

My urge to sigh is a strong one. The last plasma blast must have temporarily blinded her. Foolish woman. What idiot stares into an exploding supernova and hopes to retain her sight afterwards?

"Gyran?" she cries out for her brother, arms outstretched futilely, "Gyran! Help me!"

The paladin does not hear her, so engrossed is he in combat with the Scourge. Even if he did, it would be doubtful he could reach her through the horde of mindless dead.

A small pack of zombies stagger through a gap in the First Company's relentless assault. A few are cut down by Crusader or Argent Dawn blades as they approach, and many in the group turn to grapple with the living hewing down their comrades. A good portion, however, continue on their original path, their shambling gait drawing them nearer and nearer to the still kneeling Eva. The woman hears the guttural moans, and to my disgust, the fright in her cries grows at an exponential rate.

How simple it would be to leave this traitor to her fate. How righteous it would be. Those who spurn the Emperor's Light deserve far worse.

Even as my mind forms these malicious thoughts, my legs have started already moving. I count three heartbeats before my power armored form halts within arm reach of the terrified human. My hand shoots out and grasps the startled woman by the back of her collar, dragging her away just in time to avoid a pair of decayed claws. Her assailant, a female with half a face, mews piteously at the loss of its meal, and then trips over its own clumsy feet. My boot stomps down, and ends its attempt to rise before they can begin.

Eva thrashes in my grip, panic lending her strength. Blinded and confused, it is understandable why she would behave in this way. That does not, however, make it any easier for me to deal with.

"Get up!" I snarl to her.

She stiffens at my order, and her panic subsides to a more manageable level.

"Is that you angel?" Eva's voice is tinged with relief. Her sightless pupils swivel to where they think my face may be. Unfortunately, they are off by a considerable margin.

"Get up!" I snarl again.

"I can't! My eyes! I can't see!"

Before I can respond, a ghoul lurches after the morsel clutched in my gauntlet, fanged orifice unhinged in a ghastly wail. I drag Eva back once more, causing the woman to cry out in confusion. I silence the creature with the butt of my plasma gun, shattering its spine with a sickening crunch.

"What are you doing?" Eva complains loudly as she fights against my grip.

"Saving your life," is my obvious reply.

I shove Eva to the ground, forcing her to her knees. Her curse ends abruptly when a groaning monster lunges past her, its intelligence too simple to correct is path. I swing the plasma gun into motion, and fling the creature's crushed remains into the ranks of tattered faces.

"Damn it!" Eva swears as I pick her up again, hauling her away from a set of gnashing teeth.

I kill the offending creature by driving my weapon into the thing's emaciated chest, splintering apart the ribcage and laying open its insides for all to see. As the corpse sags, I drop the resisting woman unceremoniously on her rump.

"What was that for?" despite the situation, Eva manages to add a trace of hurt pride to her voice.

"This."

My now freed hand grasps a ghoul by its skull and smashes it against the side of the hissing plasma gun. Like an overripe fruit, the zombie's head bursts apart in a shower of gore, spraying brain matter and black ichor over my weapon and carapace. Droplets of viscera land on the red hot coils, and raise twisting pillars of foul smelling steam.

The cadaver topples, landing next to Eva in the churned mud. Reflexively, she scrabbles back from the impact… and right into the direct path of another snarling zombie. I wrench her away, dragging her through the muck, and staining the garments she wore.

"This is no way to treat a lady!" she protests vehemently.

"It is a good thing then you are not a lady."

"Why I never!" Eva glares defiantly back at me with her still blind eyes from her sitting position, seemingly unmindful of the unholy moans that grew nearer with every heartbeat.

"Tis true. No decent noble in the Emperor's realms would ever consort with the xeno."

"I didn't mean that kind of lady! Lady as in female. Women. It's a figure of speech."

"So then by my definition and yours, you are both a lady and not a lady."

"Yes. I guess you can say that."

"Does that make you both female and not female?"

Before she can make her indignation known, I am already yanking her back, narrowly avoiding a wretched pair of claws belonging to an equally wretched face.

"How long can you keep this up?" Eva demands after she catches her breath.

"Indefinitely," my reply causes her to wince.

"But surely you are impaired in combat while 'saving' me."

I am forced to agree. The fire support I am supposed to be giving has slackened noticeably. Already, I see a few of the corpulent monsters waddling through the crowds of zombies to engage the Terminators. Too many for me to take down with the plasma gun alone. I grimace behind my faceplate. A problem. But then again, a problem such as this one calls for creative solutions.

"I am letting you go now," my statement causes Eva to sigh in relief, "I advise you to stay within my reach. I cannot protect you if you stray."

"How will I know if I am still within your reach? I am still blind."

"A temporary ailment. It will fade with time."

"That doesn't help with the fact that I still cannot see."

I consider her words. At the same time, my visors gaze down at her shivering frame. Drenched from the rain, the woman is a pitiful sight. Her helm is long gone from her head, knocked from its perch by putrefied hands. The brown hair that spills forth from her crown is rich and oddly resplendent in the downpour. I see her pupils, set upon a pleasant face, searching for me, desperate and afraid. Yet despite this, despite all the trials she has recently been through, she is still smiling at me.

How peculiar these humans are.

"I am two steps away from you," I say to her, revulsion hidden from my tone but not from my heart, "forty-five degrees from your current position. Walk to me and maintain contact."

"But what if you move?"

"You possess hands. You know what do with them."

Beyond all possibility, Eva's smile grows wider. As she staggers for me, my gauntlet is already reaching for the boltgun clasped to my hip. A split second later, and the bolter joins the plasma gun already pointing towards the Scourge horde. I test both guns in my grip, and come to the conclusion that accuracy will be reduced with the addition of more firepower. An unavoidable detriment in this circumstance. I squeeze both triggers, and a ruthless torrent of fire escape from the muzzles of both weapons. Two brutes go down side by side, one disintegrating into hot ash, the other blown nearly in half by exploding shells.

A faint presence on my armor tells me Eva has found me. It is then I realize where exactly her hand rests.

"I have found your leg," she gasps out, struggling to form words with the staccato booms and ear-splitting whines sounding from above her.

"That is not my leg," I state as I kill.

"Then where am I touching?" her fingers fumble across the black ceramite, trying but failing to disseminate the information to her puzzled brain, "Your chest?"

"Lower," I grunt as I torch a massive beast with white fire.

"Your stomach?"

"Lower," my voice is nearly lost in the dying scream of a multi-limbed monster.

"Your waist?"

"Lower," I twine my weapon's fire together, slaying a pack of groaning undead and the pot-bellied abomination that stomped with them in an all-mighty amalgamation of suffocating heat and flesh-piercing rounds.

"But anything lower than that is…" the speed at which her expression changes is almost comical, "Oh."

I am distracted by a trio of howling monstrosities bearing down upon the battling frames of First Company. The first one I kill without difficulty, separating its leering head from its shoulders with a three round burst from my boltgun. The second one vanishes from existence in a flash of blinding light and a wave of scalding heat. The third I merely wound, exploding its legs from under it in a spray of gore. With a keening cry, the beast falls heavily, displacing a considerable volume of mud as its lump form crashes into the muck. Before I can end its stricken life, a man clad in Terminator armor surges forward, and crushes the creature's head with a downwards blow from his Thunder Hammer.

"This one counts as mine!" I hear Illion shout over the din.

I let the old warrior have his glory. My attention is drawn by the frail fingers that still linger upon my warplate.

"You have not moved your hand," I remark.

"No, I have not," Eva's smile has returned, "I think I will keep it where it is."

* * *

"Well," said Doan, "Well."

"I don't believe it," Whitemane muttered, "I can't believe it."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," the Commissar's gaze remained unbroken on the scene, "I am not that stubborn."

"The angel doesn't think so."

She stiffened.

"What has he been telling you besides how to make these enchanted suits of armor?"

The mage's face grew stoic at once. Whitemane swiveled on her feet, eyes flashing with anger.

"You are keeping something from me, Doan. And you know how much I dislike secrets."

The Arcanist blanched.

"You are beginning to sound like Vishas."

The Commissar refused to comment and continued her ferocious stare.

"Alright, alright," the venerable sorcerer finally relented, unwilling to stay for long under his superior's glare, "The angel and I had some discourse regarding the Scarlet Crusade, of which you were part of."

"Really," it was hard trying to keep the sudden anxiety from overpowering her voice, but Whitemane did so anyways, "What did he say about me?"

"He said that you were a liability. A commander with no grasp of tactics. A leader with no sense of direction. He said you were a danger to your men."

A moment of silence passed between the two, with each second the former Inquisitor's features becoming colder and colder. Then, Doan grinned and shattered her mounting frustration like glass.

"You are too easy, Sally."

"It was a joke then," she said, relief evident in her tone, "and he has said no such thing."

"Of course not."

"That was a bad jest, Doan, and you know it."

"Yes," the Arcanist's grin had faded into a small smile by now, "But it was worth it to see that look on your face."

"Then what did he really say?"

"That your faith was commendable and your bravery even more so."

"Really?"she allowed a faint flush of pride to tinge her cheeks, "No jokes this time?"

"And now you mistake me for Melrache, Lady Commissar. I am reserved in my jests."

Whitemane turned back, and her eyes drank in the magnificent sight before her once more. Doan followed suit, stepping forward beside her to see what she saw.

"I think I could get used to seeing this," he whispered in reverence.

"This battle is nearly concluded," Whitemane's gaze refused to leave what was before her, "But we still have our parts to play. I think I now understand what the angel wishes of me."

"Do you?"

She nodded at Doan's question.

"It is clear now."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Discipline," she spoke softly, holding an open palm forward, fingers stretching towards the glorious scene, "is the anvil on which we will smite our foes," then the fingers clutch together, forming a resolute fist, "and faith is the hammer that will do the smiting."

"An admirable deduction," the Arcanist inclined his head respectfully in her direction.

"Well then. How is your sword arm?" the Commissar's lips finally parted into a smile. Doan chuckled.

"Fine as always. My casting arm also sends its regards."

"Good," Whitemane pushed past him, gesturing to the officers that awaited her orders among the Scarlet battle line, 'You will need it for what is to come."

* * *

The Scourge were _running_. Not in the normal sense, of course. The zombies that made up the majority of the Lich King's armies were too dim-witted and ravaged by rot to do anything more than stumble. But here, now, they were running. Slow and lethargic, yes, but they were _fleeing_; shuffling on maimed feet away from the still untouched ranks of the main battle line. In truth, they had been recalled by their dark master to the ruined city of Andorhal, but to the men and women of the Crusade, it looked as though if the dead were retreating from them. And that was all their hearts needed.

Like an onrushing wave, crimson clad warriors poured forth, weapons clasped in vengeful fists. They were followed, hesitantly at first, by the masses of civilians, but the scent of victory was contagious, and soon, farmers and merchants found themselves running full pelt with plate-encased figures towards the backs of the shambling undead.

Near three thousand men and women, courage freshly found, granted strength from healthy doses of zeal, collided with the rear of Scourge horde. The results were utterly predictable as they were bloody. The back rows of the dead were knocked from their feet, sent hurtling face first into the mud. The zombies struggled to rise, dim consciences registering the need but failing to deliver. And then the sparks of intelligence went out, the bodies they held sway over trampled into ruin by scores of stampeding boots all at once.

Weapons loose, the Myrmidons were first into the fray. Swords descending in inelegant yet powerful blows, the maddened zealots tore through the staggering horde in an orgy of violence. Heedless of danger, oblivious to the groaning dead that threatened to surround them, the most faithful of the adherents to the Light slew their hated enemies with loud, baying laughs. Blood sprayed towards the stormy sky, released from ruptured corpses left after the Myrmidons' wake. Behind the berserking warriors came a company of spearmen, polearms held level as they charged. Unlike the fanatical Myrmidons, the spear wielding soldiers surged forward in orderly lines. Twenty ranks abreast and four ranks deep, the block of men and steel drove into the rear of the retreating mass with rugged war shouts. Glinting spear points plunged into undead forms, thrusting past layers of putrefied flesh, before exiting and finding targets anew. Hard on the phalanx's heel were the militia of Solliden's Farmstead. Ill-equipped and ill-trained, they nevertheless rushed into combat alongside their Crusader cohorts. Worn blades joined crude maces and sledgehammers in vengeful swings, battering down mindless Scourge with adrenaline-fueled fervor. At the forefront was the farmer himself; Solliden's burly arm hacking down on the zombies that still lurched and swayed for the gates of Andorhal a vast distance away. By his side was Rhiana, leading a mixed group of soldiers and militia. Her blade could not match her father's in strength, but surpassed the doughty farmer's in finesse. Together, they felled a bountiful harvest of the foe.

Some of the undead moved faster than the others. Half-stumbling, half-running, they sped ahead of the faltering horde in jerking strides. Tendrils of arcane energy flashed and flickered as the war mages of the Scarlet Crusade teleported into the slaughter. Lead by Arcanist Doan, palms spread outwards, they sent glistening missiles of magic into the backs of fleeing forms, and blew decayed frames apart in bright purple explosions. Howling beasts ceased to be, picked off one by one with deadly precision. Turning, the Scarlet invokers met the rest of the Scourge swarm with sheets of sorcerous flame, and burned back wailing monsters with grim-lipped smiles.

The sound of stampeding hooves filled the air as Captain Pureblade leant her force into the battle. Galloping past the chaotic melee, the Scarlet riders swerved and hammered into the walking dead from the side. Groaning forms were smashed from their feet, flung into the mud, and trampled until their twitching bodies were all but submerged in the muck. Elisa thrust her broadsword tip first into the gaping maw of a blond-headed creature, and then started to laugh when she realized she recognized the face the monster wore.

Crushed from the back by Scarlet warriors, and now driven from the front and sides by Doan and Pureblade, the hundreds of mindless dead still left had nowhere left to run. Crowded against each other, they could do nothing to fend off the encroaching touch of a death long denied .Which would make what happened next all the more easier.

Outpaced by their protectors, and surging forward in an undisciplined rabble came the people of a murdered kingdom. Pitchforks, shovels, mine picks, and hundreds more of assorted implements, now weapons, were raised by wrathful fists. Eager for vengeance, desperate for enemy blood, the entire population of Solliden's Farmstead swept down on the unholy mass like the ravaging demons of old. Entire swathes of the Scourge mass died with keening wails, scores of zombies bludgeoned to the ground with their backs to their assailants.

Slowly, ponderously, the undead turned to face their foe, their dim intelligences finally realizing the threat that now loomed from behind. But it was much too late to do anything besides die. For what drove through their ranks were not a terrified populace but a people whose blood had been roused for war. Fathers became fearless heroes, spilling foul ichor from dark creatures that had menaced their loved ones for years. Mothers turned into vengeful valkyries, bashing in decayed heads that once terrorized their children for a generation with pots and pans. Zombies fell and turned the mud black with their blood. And for the first time, a lich, far away in its fortress of stone and death, felt a pang of fear in its skeletal bosom.

* * *

The last abomination dies in a wash of white heat. Its corpse, limp and lifeless as all dead things should be, lands spread-eagled in the muck. The first to the beast's body is not a Terminator of First Company eager for glory, nor a warrior bearing the tabard of the Crusade. It is a woman, a young mother of three. Bloodied shovel in hand, she plunges the tool down hard against the flesh golem's neck, grunting with effort as the dull metal meets unyielding bone. Finally, the bone shatters, and the woman bends down, fingers grasping. A second later, and she rises to her full height, a bloodied head lifted in both hands for all to see. Gone is the doting mother, the loving wife. In her place is a blood-crazed amazon, eager for war and bloodshed. Perhaps her husband should be afraid. And then he joins her, a burly man whose clothes are stained with Scourge gore. Laughing, yelling, he embraces his wife in his muscular arms and kisses her with a passion long forgotten. The head is dropped, squelching into the mud and is soon lost in the tumult of trampling feet.

The crowd cheers, loud and resonant. They cheer for the woman and her husband. They cheer for the soldiers in their midst, swords held high in victory. They cheer for the blood drenched forms of First Company, hammers resting on the ground, fists lifted towards the sky. They even cheer for the Argent Dawn, the varying figures of height and shape sheepishly smiling amidst the slain foe.

Men slap each other on the back, congratulations spilling out from eager mouths. Soldiers and civilians intermingle, order and station forgotten as they celebrate this defeat-turned victory. Boys barely fit to be called men laugh and converse with bearded veterans twice their age. Proud boasts are soon heard from dozens of men at once, many coming from the very same youths. That Andorhal would fall before them as well as the rest of the Plaguelands. That Stratholme waited its turn to be cleansed. That Arthas himself would soon find the executioner's axe gracing his neck. Words that bordered on fantasy, and many within the Crusader ranks smile knowingly at this. But the occasion is too jubilant for them to dispel these fantasies. Not now at least. For their minds are filled with one simple thought; they have won. Against all odds, they have won.

One figure, a giant clad in black, stands alone, temporarily forgotten by the ecstatic crowd. He alone thinks differently.

* * *

The magazine clatters to the ground, empty. I insert a new one into its place with a satisfying clack. Even with our foes lying dead and defeated around us, it pays to be prepared. About my feet are five more sickle-shaped clips, each devoid of the blessed bolt shells they once carried. I make a quick mental estimation. Six magazines. Roughly one hundred and eighty rounds. All expended in this engagement. The number would have been far less had the fat brutes not been so resilient. A frown appears behind my helm. At this rate, the munitions stored in those crates will decrease at a pace I could not afford. It will be a miracle if I have a single round left after all of this.

I hesitate after making this thought. "After all of this." What definition exists for these four words? Does it mean the extinction of the Scourge and their dark master? Does it mean the destruction of the creeping plague of Chaos that has not yet settled fully on this world? Does it mean the eradication of all beings nonhuman in these lands as I originally intended? I am unsure, and the knowledge that I am uncertain in my purpose is more galling to me than the sight of the most repulsive of Scourge.

My bolter, freshly reloaded, joins the plasma gun in its rest across my back and clamps securely to my hip.

I am Astartes. Forged to be the Emperor's weapon. To be humanity's weapon. There exists no other purpose for me save the destruction of mankind's foes. That is what I was made to do. To kill. To slay. To cast down alien races that threaten our empire from without and purge the traitors that assails us from within. Without this sacred purpose, I am worthless. Without this purpose, any Astartes, be him the lowliest of battle-brothers or the most venerated of chapter masters, is worthless. And yet, here, on a world with but the faintest traces of the Emperor's Light, I find that purpose challenged.

I look down at my gauntlets, searching for an answer that cannot be found. One is the color of my chapter, black as the darkest of nights. The other has become a lustrous silver in hue, the black paint crisping and flaking off from being so near to the heat of discharging plasma. What remains is the metallic shine all suits of power armor wear before they are covered by the chapter's artificers.

They are a curious mirror to my thoughts, these hands of mine. One remains black, a testament to my chapter and to the way I have been taught to think. That no good can come from the xeno. That aliens can never possess the glorious traits of humanity. The other gleams like silver, newly revealed and a reflection in these past few days to the way I have been forced to think. That the traits of mankind we Astartes hold so dear to our hearts are evident in xeno-kind as well. Courage, freshly displayed here on these muddied fields. Honor, presented to me in sincere oaths by mouths belonging to those I am supposed to hate. I cannot deny these things, cannot refute the fact that they exist in these nonhumans. I see the truth before me, but cannot believe it can thrive in such a manner.

My gauntlets clench, becoming a pair of fists, armored digits digging into ceramite palms.

Never before has my purpose been this… muddled. My duty has forever been simple. To cleanse the taint from the stars and ensure mankind's survival. This tenet has always held true for me. But not here. Not on this world at least.

The sudden urge to rend and destroy afflicts my frame. It takes all my discipline to hold the urge in check. My entire body is rebelling. My entire being is rebelling at my heinous thoughts. The indoctrination all Space Marines are granted wages a furious war now with my mind, quelling the heretical thoughts with ruthless efficiency. I am reminded of the foulness of the Tyranids, birthed from spore-sacs to devour the worlds of humanity whole. I am presented with memories of ork-kind, bringing ruin and despair to the pure race with frenzied delight in their eyes. I am reminded of the savagery of the Dark Eldar, dragging an entire planet's worth of populations into the lairs they inhabit to slate their dark desires. This is what we fight against. This is what we must destroy to survive. There can be no other alternative.

And yet… yet…

No. That cannot be so. Ten thousand years of hatred cannot be wrong. Ten millennia of death and suffering cannot be wrong. I cannot be wrong. I _cannot_ be wrong. For if I am wrong, then my purpose is wrong. And if my purpose is wrong, then I am lost.

A pair of fragile hands takes one of my own in a warm grip. I blink, and reality refocuses. Eva. I had forgotten she was here.

The Argent woman is still smiling at me. Throne Above, nothing will erase that carefree grin from her face.

"You have silver hands," she says to me, and I notice the gauntlet she has taken is the one stripped of paint. Her sight must have returned. How else could she have known?

"And you have your eyes back," I reply hesitantly, my thoughts not yet fully collected.

"I had them back ten minutes ago," is her cheerful response.

My second blink changes midway into a frown.

"Yet ten minutes ago your hand was still placed on my armor," I make my disapproval known through words.

"And what a fine ten minutes it has been!" she winks up at me, and I find myself disarmed at such an impertinent answer. All I can do is withdraw my hand from hers.

"You have silver hands," Eva states again.

I remain silent.

"There is a hero in the history of humanity," she begins, impervious to my unease, "A great man who lead our race from near extinction in ancient times. His name was Tyr, and he also had silver hands."

"I do not possess silver hands. The paint. It has flaked off from-" before I can finish the sentence, Eva interrupts me.

"Oh, I know. But the comparison still holds. Tyr, said to be a god amongst mortal men, coming to save humanity at its darkest hour. And now you, a man said to be an angel, descends on this world," Eva's stare has turned serious, though her smile remains, "Tell me, Iron Angel. Will you be another Tyr for us? Will you guide us as Tyr once did?"

I hesitate. Eva sees my hesitation and laughs lightly.

"You do not have to answer right away," she tells me.

"I was not under the impression I had to answer."

"Hmph. You really don't like talking do you?"

"Talking is fine. But talking with you is…"

"Fantastic?"

"Heretical."

Eva raises an eyebrow at this.

"How is talking to me heresy?"

"You consort with xeno-kind. I was made to destroy xeno-kind. You cannot see the conflicts that might arise between the two of us?"

"Nope!" her answer is as oblivious as her smile. Thankfully, any further conversation she may have forced upon me is halted by a strong voice calling her name. Eva rolls her eyes.

"So now he remembers me. Idiot brother."

I watch her jog away with puzzled interest. How odd this woman is. And then she halts, and looks back. Her voice is nearly drowned out by the cheers of her fellow mortals, but my enhanced hearing picks out her words nevertheless. Something about being grateful for saving her life and that she would find a means to repay me someday. There is a hidden meaning in what she chooses to say, but it is a meaning that I cannot fathom. I soon lose her in the crowd of celebrating humans. Just as well. Her flippant mood was fast eroding my patience.

"The Scourge will remember this day," comes a voice I know from behind me, "They will remember the day we beat them against all odds and drove them back to their craven lair."

"Fine words," I say back.

"Greetings Iron Angel," Whitemane inclines her head in my direction, her face flush with victory.

"Hail, Lady Commissar," I nod back, "and you need not bow in my presence."

"Only the heretic and the unclean fail to show their reverence, lord."

"And only the Emperor commands your reverence, Lady Commissar. I deserve none of it, for I am merely his servant, as are we all."

"But-"

"No buts, my lady. I do not ask for your faith. That should be reserved for the Emperor and the Emperor alone. I only ask for your respect, and in some cases, your obedience."

"You will always have my obedience, sire."

Good. Her declaration will make what comes next relatively simple.

"If that is the case, prepare your officers for a briefing. Andorhal awaits."

* * *

Brutus was running. Muddied robes flapping about his frail body, the cultist was in full flight towards the distant walls of Andorhal. He counted himself lucky. His retreat had nearly been curtailed by a patrol of Scarlet warriors. In the nick of time, he had cast himself to the ground and remained motionless, one prone body among the thousands that now littered the earth. The muck that he had, for the battle's duration, wished away, now saved his life. Covered in the disgusting stuff, he was nearly indistinguishable from the zombified corpses that lay around him. The Crusaders had stabbed a few bodies that still looked to be alive, and then abandoned the field to join the tumultuous celebrations. Brutus had crawled then, fingers digging deep into churned filth, one inch at a time, away from the humans and their flames. And when he judged he was far away to go unnoticed, the cultist had risen and broke into a panicked run.

So far it was working. The thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. This, at least, was going his way. And then the smile disappeared, replaced by a scowl of pain and a look of confusion. The cultist flailed with both arms, agony arresting his motion. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still sewage. His face squelched into mud.

Gasping, spitting out soiled filth, Brutus rose from the muck. He glanced down and saw an arrow, wicked with serrated edges, impaled through his thigh. He looked up and saw red eyes watching him from the shadows. He squealed and ran.

The second arrow he heard, but only because he knew it was coming. The shaft sank into his other thigh, and he went down again, face first into the mud. This time, he didn't rise. A sudden weight straddled his back, a weight that he did not try to fight. The jagged edges of the blade at his throat prevented him from doing that.

"I was to catch a god today," spoke a sibilant voice from above him, husky and hoarse from the undeath, "but sadly, I caught you instead."

A delicate but forceful hand wrested the cultist by the hair and slammed his face into the mud.

"I am very, very, _very_ disappointed."

Brutus struggled. Nose and mouth held into the muck, he couldn't breathe. And then the hand jerked his head back, and the air he was denied came in great, bountiful amounts into his lungs.

"But, a huntress must make do with what she catches."

The blade, serrated like the arrows drawing blood from his thighs, pressed close against his face.

"Now scream for me."

* * *

**Author's Note: Some of you have been asking how the Scarlet Guard's Terminator armor were made, as well as how their weapons (namely the Thunder Hammers and Storm Shields) were crafted. The short answer is: I have no idea. The long-winded answer is: it is not inconceivable that Avarian told Doan what the primary function of Terminator Armor is, and the Arcanist was able to piece together a rudimentary form of it for the Champions. Note that I said rudimentary. The Terminators of the Scarlet Crusade are a far cry from the First Company of an Astartes chapter. The Champions, after all, are still very much human with no black carapace to link them to their power armor. One of my reviewers have said that they would be supreme 'line-breakers', and that's what I intended them to be. On the subject of why this has not been done before in the Warcraft universe, I have to say that the question itself is kind of tricky to answer. You might as well ask why the gnomes haven't stitched together a Baneblade by fusing a dozen steam tanks together and stamping various enchantments across the tank's surface. Just because nobody has thought of it before does not necessarily mean that it cannot be done. In Avarian's case, he has no clue how Terminator armor is made by the Mechanicus, but he knows how they should work and how they would function on a battlefield. Doan on the other hand, being the knowledgeable Arcanist he is, would probably know how to create enchantments but not know how to place them together into a coherent suit of warplate. When you got one guy with the vision, and another with the know-how, voila! Innovation results.**

_Darth nylon544: Thank you very much! Avarian's PoV is something that I stay true to in regards to 40k fluff. He'll have his doubts, as you see in this chapter, and he will change by the end of this fic, but the doubts and the change will be spread slowly across this story as it should be. In terms of the heresy in the harem, I would agree with you if elves were xenos. But the question arises once again… are they really xenos?_

_WraithRune: Don't worry! I have no intention of stopping! _

_Archon of Darkness: He'll steamroll everything that is a Core Troop choice, but start to have trouble when he faces magic-users, trolls, giants, ogres, chimeras, and the various nasties that are sprinkled throughout Warhammer Fantasy._

_Diosk: Thanks!_

_Tyranifex and spedclass: Update for you!_

_Blood of Sanguinius: Maybe. The Lich King will fall, but he won't fall easily. The Lich King is a being that you would want to send Grey Knights after, being he has that aura of "you come close you die" around him. Avarian will have plenty of trouble with him, but that doesn't mean he'll take his helm when Arthas dies. He would most likely consider it a daemon artifact and want to cleanse it with holy fire. The Imperial Guard are indeed referred to as the Hammer of the Emperor, but the Grey Knights also refer themselves as "His Hammer". Space Marines do need to eat and sleep, but only in minute amounts. I believe in the fluff they can go roughly 2 weeks without sleeping before their combat efficiency is impaired, and quite a few days without water or food as well._

_Nurgle's Child/Brood: Dragons will have a part to play in this fic._

_ForTheBitterSweet: I haven't taken any English classes in college. My major is Mechanical Engineering. The Champions are the former knights of the Silver Hand. As a side note, not all knights of the Silver Hand are paladins, and for those who are paladins, there are varying degrees of power between them. Being former knights of the Silver Hand, the Champions would be rigorously trained in war to the extent as any feudal society would allow. They pretty much just donned a new suit of armor and continued their old ways, relatively speaking. However, it should be noted that they are __**not**__ Space Marines, and they will never be. And thanks for the comment!_

_Big fan: Thanks!_

_Helius: Romance will gradually worm itself in there, but heck, this is a Space Marine we're talking about. You can bash him in the face all day with sexual innuendoes and by the day's end, he probably still won't understand. Psycho-indoctrination works wonders in repressing temptations of the flesh after all._

_Salle1980: It really, really depends. Sometimes I can crank out 2 thousand words plus in one day. On other occasions, I call myself lucky if I manage 500. In my opinion, it's the quality that counts, and I would gladly wait a few days before updating if it means I can re-read the chapter and fix a few paragraphs._

_Kelthemos of Nismon: Thank you! Avarian's battle barge is called the Wings of Corax, which will be mentioned in later chapters. A Space Marine's power armor does indeed, in many cases, take care of the wearer's food and water needs. However, being Astartes, a Space Marine can go many days without food or water if the situation demands._

_Leafy8765: The Imperial Guard are weak compared to the other factions, but it's not the quality that counts for the Guard, but the quantity, though the majority of Guard regiments have both quality and quantity. The Guard are in trope-terms, Badass Normal, but in a universe like 40k, that doesn't amount to much. The Sorcerer will also make further appearances. _

_Hand of Sand: The trolls and draenei are probably the most xeno-looking races in Warcraft. You can understand that impressions will be somewhat… lackluster… if Avarian encountered them first. :P_

_Big Fan: I understand that Whitemane, game-wise, can resurrect her minions. However, I try to separate game-mechanics from this story as much as possible. In my opinion, resurrection is something only the most powerful of healers can do, and only if the spirit in question wishes to be resurrected. _

_RequiemforGods, avid reader, & Earl: Thanks!_

_Hammerchukery: Lasguns in the hands of every Scarlet soldier is too much. But not if they're in the hands of a select few. :P_

_The Amazing Chicken Dinner: Quality over quantity my friend!_

_Supreme Tactical Bias: Thank you!_

_Melgar: Besides the strength needed to wear plate, none. _

_Avid Reader Guy: ROOOAAARRR!_

_Uzumaki-barrage: Thanks!_

_Arch Indar: The dreadnought will be playing a part and a most vital part at that. He just hasn't appeared. _

_Sir Omega: Space Marines chant litanies and battle-hymns as they fight. They are warrior-monks after all. The idea originally came to me after re-reading Brothers of the Snake by Dan Abnett, and after reading Shinji and Warhammer 40k, the idea became reality. As for the Eldar, I think a Farseer being on Azeroth answers your question. _

_Skipper_1337: Well, you can rest assured. The Champions are not Astartes. They don't have the black carapace and numerous other genetic implants that makes a Space Marine a Space Marine. They are just normal men clad in power armor. So they are quite powerful, but definitely not invulnerable to the various nasties that the Scourge possess in their arsenal._

_Sigismund: The problem with that thought, is Space Marines hold their weapons to be god-spirits that aid them in battle. Avarian won't soon start etching strange sigils on his boltgun just because some gnome told him "it would shoot better"!_

_Lunatic Pandora1: They do have mithril and adamantium, but the adamantium they use is 'less refined', shall we say._

_Tormented123: Tirion will play a role in this fic. He's the leader of the Argent Crusade after all!_

_Pinto: Probably. 51 Terminators will kill Arthas, but they'll take some casualties._

_Overdrive1: If only the Dreadnought could be started with awesomeness…_

_Knives91: Thanks!_

_SirLagginton: Eh, if Avarian was dressed in Terminator regalia, he wouldn't be able to use the more exotic weapons available to Space Marines. Only a storm bolter and power fist, which nonetheless, is still deadly, but less interesting._

_Chris Adair & Cormalin: Thank you!_

_HitokiriOnib: It's because the Crusaders has dogma shoved up too far up their whoo whoo. They are after all, religious fanatics compared to the rest of Warcraft-verse. Hell, the Scarlet Crusade would make perfect foot soldiers for the Inquisition. Their attitudes fit right in with the OrdoHereticus. I have two sequels planned, and maybe more. However, a crossover with Warhammer Fantasy is not one of them. _

_Psykotic addiction: Not 300, I'm afraid. Did the whole sequence after reading Brothers of the Snake._

_Mattrocks: Writing, always to me, has been something I've found to be quite enjoyable. That, and reading. Whenever I take a break from schoolwork, I add a few sentences or a few paragraphs to the current chapter I'm working on, and soon, it all adds up._

_GovernorDerekthe2nd: Eh, as long as it's not "Death to the False Emperor!" or "Down with the Imperium!", it should be fine and dandy for a verse in the litany. _

_Winged Knight: The Scourge can technically recover from any blow as long as there are ample enough corpses for them to raise. Which is why burning corpses is so important in the aftermath of any battle with the undead. And fifty is indeed a miracle. Doan's apprentices were sweating hard, you can be sure of that!_

_Kojiro Kun: Thank you!_

_Sgt. Nolisten: It is a possibility. And yes, there will be times when Avarian is helpless and at his opponent's mercy. _

_Timewatch: Enchantments across throats = Vox-amplifiers. :P_

_Hells Mercenary: Thanks!_

_Celtic Reaper: Maybe. We'll see. :P_

_NightHunterMGS: Pretty much. Space Marines, especially those from Codex chapters, generally have multiple plans to defeat the enemy. Of course chapters like the Black Templars and Flesh Tearers usually have only one. And yes, you are spot on regarding xeno/human breeding. It is an impossibility as far as 40k is concerned. However, in Warcraft, you have half-elves, half-orcs, half-ogre, and a lot more halves that I'm pretty sure exist but have no clue about._

_Will of the Emperor: We'll see. He might offer Avarian some tea and crumpets. :O_

_SgtKang: Awesome is pretty much what I try to achieve for each chapter._

_Xynth: Well, Thunder Hammers are relatively easy to make. Just obtain a regular hammer and enchant it. Lightning Claws on the other hand… yeah… As for Tactical, Assault, and Devastator Squads… we'll see. The interesting thing about having a Space Marine in charge of a Guard regiment, is that the Astartes won't care much about the organization of the regiment, as long as it gets the job done in a swift and efficient manner. Armored regiments I already have an idea about, as well as Sanctioned Psykers. Titans are also a possibility._

_Huitt1989: Thanks!_


	45. Humanity's Plan

Chapter 44

"Andorhal's walls were built to last. They are thick and resolute, even after all these years. We cannot penetrate them without cannons," says Vachon.

"But we do have cannons. If we could wait a few days for them to arrive, the walls will crumble with the first few shots!" argues Herod, war-helm held in the crook of one arm.

"Those same cannons are with the Cannon Master in Stratholme. It will take days for them to be moved here. Days in which the Scourge will be harassing the cannon train constantly. You cannot possibly be proposing they be dragged along leagues of hostile territory to aid us here," this, from Perrine.

"My cavalry could possibly be of use," suggests Elisa, "We can ride for Stratholme and ask for the guns. We might even be able to bring reinforcements."

"Both of which will still need to cross the entirety of the Plaguelands to get here," counters Perrine again.

"That, and the Crimson Legion are still in heated conflict with the Scourge. I do not think that Willey will let go of his prized weapons when they are being used to drive Rivendare from his hold," Vachon spits in disgust, making his hatred known.

The spittle lands near a pair of dainty feet. Instructor Malicia grimaced. The act, while natural, was most likely intentional. Not that she held such vulgarity against the Scarlet captain. Quite the contrary. She understood. The loathing held by the people of Lordaeron towards the Scourge was legendary. But that too, was understandable. This hatred was all these people had left. It was something they held on to like a drowning man to a raft. Everything else they had lost; their homes, their loved ones, even their future. Was it not natural, then, for these humans to hate? And hence, was it not natural for these humans to hate her, a reminder amongst their midst of the enemy that has taken everything from them?

At least the man had not spat on her, reflected Malicia.

The high elf shuffled nervously. The angel had asked for her. No. 'Asked' was too polite a word. He had demanded her presence, and she had obeyed. It was as simple as that. Though why her presence was demanded remained to be seen.

"It is galling," Herod grunts, his gruff features twisted into a scowl, "to be halted in this way."

"How so?" Doan asked automatically, leaning on his stout staff.

"Look at us. Look around us," the Champion gestures with a burly arm encased in plate, "Thousands of the foe we have vanquished. We have won a battle worthy of the heroes of old. We should be riding high on the impetus of this victory. Instead, we are outmatched by a wall. Outmatched and outplayed by stones and rocks. I do not know what the thoughts of each of you are, but to me at least, it is a shame that we cannot add another victory to this one all because of a bloody wall."

As though if confirming to the Terminator's statements, a fresh bout of cheering comes from the still intermingled crowds of humans. Some of the officers turn and stare at the source of the noise, wistful looks on their faces. They would rather be among the joyous populace, celebrating the recent victory, than be here, amidst the circle of commanders pouring over a nonexistent battle plan. Yet, reality was a harsh mistress. That, and the angel was a harsh master.

"Ladders," whispers a reedy voice, "We can make ladders."

All turned at the sound, and Vishas winced as a multitude of faces stared at him for answers.

"We can make ladders from the dead forests around here. There are plenty of peasants to do the work."

"Ladders…" mused Doan, the mage's countenance thoughtful. The Arcanist's hand comes up and scratches his flame-red beard, "In theory, it could work. But the risk…"

"One cannot win a battle without risk. Ladders it is then," Herod states with finality.

"Listen to your Arcanist. The risk is too great," Gyran Truthseeker smiled grimly as his voice caused snarls to appear on Crusader lips, "You will need at least a dozen men to carry each ladder for walls as high as Andorhal's. You will also be moving across an open field with the enemy in clear view of your forces. I do not know what defenses there are in Andorhal, but there has to be some undead the lich possesses in his horde capable of ranged strikes. Taking that into consideration as well as the fact you will be heavily outnumbered, and you will be taking casualties long before you reach the parapets. The only result I can see is a field of dead men."

"The Hell you say!" Herod shouts, taking a step forward, war-axe gripped menacingly in hand. Gyran remains stoic, but his gloved hand shifts his hammer to meet the blow should it come. A thick, grating tone forces the two warriors to lower their weapons.

"Peace, champion. What the paladin says has merit."

Two ruby eye slits move as the ivory helm that wears them move, staring at both men in turn.

"Ladders can be and are used for a siege," the giant growled, "But it cannot guarantee if the siege will be in our favor. A successful siege dictates that the attacker must possess more men than the defender. In this circumstance, the opposite is true. We do not possess the number to ably support those carrying the ladders, nor do we have the number to soak in the casualties from the Scourge raining death upon us from above. Our forces will be depleted long before we can reach the battlements. As the paladin says, 'a field of dead men'."

"And soon to be fodder for Scourge reanimation," a feminine voice adds helpfully.

Heads turn to glare at this new voice. Eva blinks. Then shrugs.

"Sorry."

Malicia smiled thinly at the Argent woman's discomfort. Not in spite. No, never that. She smiled because here was history in the making, and none besides her knew it. For here, before her very eyes, were a multitude of races, both Horde and Alliance, and even the soldiers of the Scarlet Crusade, working _together_. True, there were still much hostility between the groups, especially among the Crusaders, but it was a start. If only those present besides her realized the implications. Well. Maybe the angel knew. But if he did, he certainly kept it to himself.

"So if ladders won't work, what will?" Herod snarls in impatience, "I want that unholy place to burn!"

"Do not be so quick to throw out the idea of ladders," comments Melrache, "If the gentlemen under Loksey would be willing to cover us with their bows, we could move the ladders with little fear of reprisal."

"I can certainly do that," the Houndmaster nods in agreement.

"The problem with that plan," comes another voice the Crusaders snarl at, "is one strictly of position."

Keina Stormsong rests her hand on the groove of her bow, ignoring the baleful looks she received with centuries-worth of kaldorei grace. The night elf inclines her head in the direction of the angel, though Avarian makes no response in turn, before continuing.

"The Scourge command a higher location. Their archers, should they have any, will be launching volleys of arrows down upon us, while we have to fire up towards the battlements. Added to that, are the stone parapets the Scourge will have to defend them, and you see why it is folly to put this plan into action."

"What the elf says is true," concedes Loksey, "Give me thrice as many men as I have now, and I could possibly do it. But with what I have now…" he does not finish the sentence. He does not need to. All those present understood the insinuation even without the words to support it.

"Well, there goes my idea out of the window," Melrache chuckles. The Scarlet captain nudges his friend with an elbow in good cheer, "And why haven't you presented any of your ideas, Edgar? You are known for your inventive mind."

"Stow it Darrik," grunts Vachon, "If I had a plan, I would be telling everyone."

"Inventive?" the angel's thick tone causes some amongst the group to start.

"Aye," Melrache grins, disregarding Vachon's furious motions for him to stop "Edgar is a dreamer of sorts. Why, just recently, he has conjured the idea for a weapon that can shoot light and can be recharged by exposing it to the sun!"

The giant begins to make a snorting noise, but curtails it in time. The amusement laced in his tone escapes notice. But not from Malicia. The high elf's ears twitched. It was not often the angel did something besides kill Scourge and make rousing speeches. She could probably count on one hand the times he did anything that did not pertain to war. In fact, she had not ever seen him eat or sleep. And that scared her. The others might see him as human, but to her, he was a living weapon, with no other considerations besides killing for the Emperor he so eagerly served. The Scourge had such beings as well in their ranks. Beings whose sole purpose was defined by war. They were called death knights.

A sudden pang of guilt afflicted her mind. Living weapon the giant may be, but that was infinitely better than what she was. At least the angel killed for a rightful purpose.

"Then what next?" Herod snarls, "My hammer and those of First Company are still eager for Scourge blood!"

"Maybe the angel will aid us?" a dozen heads turned to regard the impassive giant at these words, "The weapon he used earlier will be something I remember for a lifetime," Solliden rubs his arm as he says this, and a collected murmur of agreement sounds from the group.

"Plasma weaponry is not often used to break fortifications," the angel replies slowly, his tone contemplative, "The heat is designed to wash away from the point of impact to induce instant incineration. It will require a few blasts to weaken the stone, and a few more to fully disintegrate it. Lascannons, missile launchers, and meltaguns are more capable for the task at hand."

"And do you have any such weapons in your arsenal?" Rhiana asks by her father's side.

"I have a meltagun."

"Then the problem is solved," Melrache smiles cheerfully, "and we can begin the assault immediately."

"Not quite, captain," the giant grunts, "We will be still taking fire from the battlements despite what the meltagun can do. Remember that we still have a field to cross before the walls. The Scourge will not be idling when we do. That and I much prefer my flamer when it comes to engagements like this. The crowded confines of a city are perfect for it."

"So we are back to square one," sighs Vachon in disappointment.

"But sire," Doan asks, "How will we even know there will be archers and the likes on Andorhal's walls? For all we know, the Scourge might only possess zombies to stop us, which while blasphemous to look upon, are weak and easily felled by our blades."

"That is a question you should not be asking me," was the grating reply. False eyes the color of human blood settled on Malicia. She swallowed. One by one, the rest of the group followed suit, until a dozen pair of eyes were locked on her nervous frame.

"What would you ask of me?" she all but whispered.

"You have provided Scourge numbers in the past. I ask that you do it again, but this time with their position in mind."

"No, my lord!" Herod growls through clenched teeth, "Do not listen to her! She _is_ _Scourge_!"

"It is unwise to trust one who has been so ingrained in evil in the past," Gyran adds not a second later. The two stare at each other in surprise, Terminator and paladin, incredulous that they had reached something they both agreed on.

Harsh words sounded in support of both men's statements, urging the angel to do away with her, and in some cases, even urging her immediate execution. Malicia's features twisted into a sad smile as she glanced at the faces that surrounded her. Most of the Crusaders bore hateful expressions towards her, but that was to be expected. Her interest lay in the others, in the nonhumans and what views they had of her. Keina refused to meet her hopeful gaze, as though if she was some shameful thing not to be looked upon. Vareesa ignored her. The rogue's attention seemed solely focused on Eva, a hateful sneer marring her usually faultless features. The girl in question, oblivious to the blood elf's baleful stare, gave her a warm smile in return, but Malicia could all too easily detect the distrust veiled in her eyes. Her brother on the other hand, was glaring daggers in her direction. Apparently, even a paladin's compassion had limits. Dress him now in crimson instead of white, and one would think he fought for Crusade instead of the Dawn. Even the orc discounted her presence. Karduk's black plated form menaced over those of the humans and elves. The horned helm the greenskin wore hid his grim visage from view, but Malicia felt his disapproving stare upon her nonetheless. The high elf smiled sadly. She would find no friends here.

"She is evil beyond words," complains Herod again, "and I am sure there is a devil lurking within her just waiting for its time to leap out and betray us."

"Then let us see what the devil has to say for herself," the angel states without emotion, and silences the dissent before it can erupt into something more than just words. Malicia took a deep breath before replying.

"I will need a pointed implement of some kind," she gulped, wary of the distrusting eyes focused upon her, "To sketch the outline of Andorhal."

In one smooth motion, the angel whips out something from his side and flings it in the high elf's direction. A blade, three feet from tip to hilt, sinks into the earth inches away from Malicia's feet. It juts there, for a few silent seconds, light reflecting off its steel surface. And then it leaves the ground, smooth grip surrounded by delicate fingers.

It was heavy. Heavier than she expected, and she had expected the blade to weigh a whole lot. Another deep breath and she was carving furrows in the dirt, sketching a picture on the ground that the others crowded together hesitantly to see.

"Andorhal is surrounded on three sides by walls," words accompanied the furious work she was doing with her hands, "namely, the north, the east, and the west. Its southern side is protected by a river flowing from Darrowmere Lake, and it is a foolish foe who thinks he can take the city by wading the swift currents. It is an even more foolish foe, however, who thinks the walls have fallen into disuse in these past years. Skeleton archers man the battlements each and every day, and their numbers surpass those of your own by at least a hundred."

"Ten times a score then," interrupts Loksey, "we will be hard-pressed to give cover against twice our number."

Malicia nodded warily.

"And that is only the outer layer of the city's defenses. Within Andorhal's walls are creatures fit for nightmares."

"It is a good thing then I cannot dream," the angel replied, raising a few chuckles from the gathered warriors. The laughter died when they realized there was no jest in his tone.

"There exists three quarters within the city," Malicia continued with difficulty, trying to match her words with the inelegant sketches being slowly carved into the ground, "Divided by the triumphant Scourge forces after Andorhal's conquest. The first quarter lies directly behind the walls. It is occupied mainly by the lower dredges of the Scourge army. Zombies. Ghouls. Skeletons. All are abundant here. To take Andorhal, we will first have to brave through a mass of undead minions."

"We've braved these masses before," Herod says with fierce relish in his voice, "We can do it again. First Company will grind them beneath our heels."

"And then there is the second quarter," the high elf cut the Champion off before more boasts could come from his mouth, "where the more valuable of the Scourge warhost reside. Here is where the lich keeps his most prized minions. Abominations. Gargoyles. Crypt Fiends. Rumors say that there is even an arachnid lord resting within this place."

Murmurs sound from a dozen lips at this revelation. Crypt Fiends were a manageable foe. Crypt Lords... not so much. Thrice as tall as a normal human and many more times massive in terms of bulk, the powerful beasts were a legacy of the past, when the spidermen of Northrend ruled supreme. These arachnid kings were raised to serve the Scourge when the undead crushed the fabled empire of Azjol-Nerub and were just as powerful as they had been in life. Not an easily defeated foe.

The angel takes notice of the unease taking hold of the group. He shakes his helmeted head. Malicia briefly wondered what thoughts raged inside his mind before carrying on.

"And finally we have the third quarter. The place where Araj himself dwells. With him will be the varying ranks of the Cult of the Damned. The cultists will be no slouches, however, as Araj has had ample time to teach his most favored servants the blackest of magics. To reach the lich, we will have to fight a war of sorcery," she concluded.

"A war that I and my apprentices will win," Doan grunts immediately after, arms crisscrossed across his chest.

"But at what cost?" speaks Perrine, his question wiping the determined look from the Arcanist's face, "From what the elf says, we will be taking an insurmountable amount of casualties before we can even confront the lich. It is foolish to proceed with this siege."

"Then what do you propose?" Elisa asks, frustration apparent in her countenance.

"That we retreat to Hearthglen for the time being. Lord Fordring can call upon at least three thousand men to aid us. We can also spend time safely constructing siege equipment without the fear of Scourge reprisal. When we return, we will have more than enough forces to take Andorhal as well as the necessary equipment. It is the best course of action."

"Retreat…" muses Vachon in deep thought.

"Retreat…" spits Herod in disgust.

A loud, discordant sound enters the ears of everyone present and breaks the fragile atmosphere into unsalvageable pieces. The angel was laughing. Malicia shuddered. She would never get used to that noise. For laughter to sound so human and yet so inhuman at the same time.

"I have seen a good amount of weapons employed by the undead in these past few days," the giant grates, "all of them quite blasphemous. However, none of them can quite compare with that mouth you possess, Miss Scourge."

"I… I did not intend-"

"For your words to be a weapon?" the angel chuckled, "Save your excuses. Whether you intended or not, it seems that the spirits of these fighting men have all but disappeared after your briefing."

Complaints rise against this, most of them from Herod. The giant ignores them all, his false-eyes refusing to budge from her face.

"Suspicious men would say that you are lying," he states, tone still amused, "Purposely trying to inflate the enemy's capability while at the same time instilling us with dread."

"That was never my intention. I-"

"But then again, suspicious men never make good generals," the angel tilts his head slightly, as if considering a thought, "and have no place in an army of those faithful to the Emperor's Light. No. You are not lying. If you were, you would be telling us of how weak and easily taken the defenses of Andorhal are. You would be instilling in us a false sense of confidence. To lead us into an ambush. And when we finally realize the falsehoods you have told us, it would be much too late. No. You do not lie. You state the truth, as unpleasant as it is."

"Thank you," the high elf whispered, blessed relief flooding into her mind.

"As for the subject of retreat," the giant ignored her gratitude, his attention now solely focused on the warriors clad in crimson and those in white, "are you all unanimous in this decision?"

A few nods, followed by mutters of reluctant agreement meet the Iron Angel's words. The idea presented by Perrine gathered only hesitant followers.

"Then I am the only one who opposes."

Heads look up in consternation at this declaration. Perrine gives an exasperated sigh.

"With all due respect lord, what you ask of us is impossible. We cannot take Andorhal with so few in number nor can we do it without cannons or siege engines. Better if we head for Hearthglen to gather reinforcements before coming back."

"That would be an act of folly, captain," the angel replies patiently.

"And how would that act be one of madness?" Perrine throws out an agitated arm towards the rest of the group, "I, as well as all others here, would like to know."

"There are three advantages of assaulting Andorhal immediately, and three disadvantages of not doing so," calm words come from the giant's mouth-grill, but fail to quell the Scarlet officer's mounting frustration, "Would you like to hear them?"

"By all means, go right ahead," is Perrine's angry response.

"Andorhal's walls are thick and resolute, as Captain Vachon has said," the angel begins, impervious to the officer's agitation, "but the same cannot be said for the evil that lurk behind them. There are mortals of flesh and blood dwelling within that city, and they will be greatly affected by the news of the recent battle. We must strike now, while their morale is low and their spirits suffer. That is the first advantage. The morale of our own forces, are a stark contrast to those of the Scourge. We have won a victory here, a victory that even the civilians have participated in. Our spirits are at their highest place. If we assault Andorhal now, the confidence each and every warrior contains in his breast will allow him to perform great feats of daring and valor. That is the second advantage. The lich knows the defeat it has suffered will tax the morale of his living minions. It also knows that our force will be smaller in size than his own as well as lacking the necessary equipment to commence a siege. It will not expect us to attack. And that is exactly the reason we must do so. If we strike now, we will have the element of surprise on our side. That is the third advantage."

The giant's helm makes whirring noises as he shifts his gaze from each warrior to the next.

"These advantages alone are not sufficient reason to assault the walls, but when added to what may happen should we retreat, then it is reason enough."

"I can only see benefits from retreating," this, again from Perrine, "and no drawbacks."

"That is because you cannot see the whole picture," says the angel, ignoring the look of rage the Scarlet captain gives him in response, "If we withdraw now, we will lose the confidence the recent victory has instilled in the men, as well as the gain from the loss of morale within the Scourge ranks. That is the first disadvantage. There is also the chance that the lich will gather reinforcements while we are gone and strengthen the defenses of his city. Once we march back from Hearthglen, even with siege implements and reinforcements at our disposal, we could find ourselves facing greater numbers and thickened walls. That is the second disadvantage. Indeed, we might not even make it to Hearthglen. The opponent we face is not brainless. It will know to send out its army when we withdraw. Mindless and inferior, the Scourge minions are, but they are not without threat. Added to that are the civilians. They will be coming with us no doubt. How will we defend ourselves and the wagon train carrying those that cannot fight? No. It will be a slaughter. The undead will swoop down upon us like wolves and decimate our divided ranks. Good men will be butchered as they race to defend their families. That is the third disadvantage."

"Well. If you put it that way, it looks like we're doomed," Melrache jokes after a moment of silence among the gathered throng.

"Far from it," the angel's response is measured, "There are ample enough means for us to bypass those walls."

"Does that mean you have found a way into Andorhal?" Herod's voice is eager as he stares at the giant.

"Six ways in fact. Twenty-three if I had Astartes in my command."

"You're kidding," Elisa shakes her head in disbelief.

"I am being completely serious."

"What are you waiting for then?" cries out Herod in exultation, "Tell us so we can get this assault underway!"

The angel does not reply, and instead crosses his arms over his immense chest. The gathered warriors glance at him in puzzlement, not understanding his sudden silence.

"I think the Iron Angel wishes for us to come up with our own plan," murmurs Whitemane, the first words she has spoken throughout the whole meeting. Heads swivel towards the Commissar's direction. She meets them with an air of calm authority.

"Why?" the impertinent question comes from Herod, unsurprisingly.

"What difference does it make whose plan is whose?" Vachon adds, "As long as Scourge filth dies, it shouldn't matter."

"It does matter," Malicia shuddered as she realized the voice that had replied belonged to her, "Because in spite of the recent battles you have won, none of them can truly count as yours."

They turn now to stare at her. She notices the hands resting on sword hilts and smiles sadly once more. Never will they fully trust her, no matter how helpful she aimed to be.

"That doesn't make sense…" Solliden begins to say, then stops, sudden understanding alight in his eyes, "I see now."

"What?" Herod glares in impatience towards the farmer, "What? What do you see?"

"Well… It's not really our victory if all the planning comes from the angel right? I mean, we shed blood in both battles, but the formations, the troop movements and all that were orchestrated by him."

"I don't understand," the Champion of the Crusade grunts, "What does all of this have to do with anything? So what if we were lead to win by the angel? The victories still belong to us!"

"No. It is not that simple," Whitemane waves a hand, and Herod begrudgingly takes a step back in compliance, "We cannot take the credit when each battle has been planned by the lord angel. It would be like having a blacksmith forge for yourself a new blade and after, claiming that you forged it yourself."

"That's what I was getting at," nods Solliden.

"I can fight for you. I can win for you. I can even die for you. But I cannot think for you," the angel confirmed quietly, his tone curiously subdued.

"Does that mean you don't want to lead us?" Elisa's voice is afflicted with tension.

"I never intended to lead you in the first place," the confession brings shocked gasps from the group and the giant sighs heavily, "Do not take this the wrong way, Guardsmen. It is not doubt in your abilities nor reservations towards your combat prowess that makes me think thus. It is a matter strictly of tradition. The Codex Astartes do not allow the likes of me to lead humans into battle. There are… differences… between you and me that prevents command of any Guard regiment from falling into Astartes hands. History has proven this rule a wise one in the past ten thousand years."

"But sire," Whitemane's words are worried as she gazes up at the ivory helm, "Surely rules can be broken? I do not mean to disparage the valor of the men that surround me, but without you, the two victories we have won would not have been possible."

The angel's faceplate is an emotionless mask of cruel metal, but despite that, they all hear the smile in his words as he next speaks.

"You say that as if I will be leaving this army's side by tomorrow," a faint hue of red appears on the Commissar's cheeks as the giant completes the sentence, something that goes ignored by all except for one. Malicia blinks. Understandable. Charisma. Strength. Intelligence. The makings of a hero. And in this day and age, where chaos reigned and war threatened to rear its ugly head, heroes attracted heroes. Or in this case, heroines.

"I do not intend to abandon you, if that is what all of you are thinking," the angel continues, "You are humanity, the race I am sworn to protect. I am merely stating that I cannot always be there to guide you. The men you command form an army, and that army needs leaders. And you, all of you, must become those leaders. Do not solely rely on me in decision making, for I cannot be there to assist you all the time."

A black plated finger points to each of the warriors clad in scarlet in turn.

"All of you have the potential to do great deeds. That is the legacy of our kind. You are ingrained with the primal courage of the pure race, and the blood of heroes rages in your vein. Our empire exists only because of champions like you, whose acts of gallantry span the stars themselves. I have shown you the worth of an Astartes. Now it is time for you to show me what the men of Lordaeron can do."

"And women," quipped Eva.

The angel's smile refuses to abate.

"And women."

"Well," Melrache speaks with a grin, "I don't think we can fail now. But, we still need a way to get past those walls."

"The Commissar has a plan," the giant replies curtly, "That is the reason why she has been silent for all this time."

Whitemane's eyes widened in surprise at this recognition, but steeled herself as hopeful faces swiveled in her direction.

"It is not much, I'm afraid. Only the beginning of something I'm not sure would even work."

"Something is better than nothing," remarks Doan, and many are the heads that nod in agreement.

"If I recall," the Commissar began with some apprehension, "There is a gatehouse that is situated directly above Andorhal's entranceway. Assuming the Scourge haven't done much to the city's infrastructure, then the mechanism that operates the gates should still be intact. We can open gates from there. That is provided, of course, we can gain the walls."

"And how will we do that?" the question comes from Gyran Truthseeker.

"We will have to think outside the box…"

* * *

Mindless death stalked the walls of Andorhal. Skeletal frames dressed in the tattered uniforms of a long forgotten army. Fleshless forms clutching weathered bows and sporting quivers full of jagged arrows. Ivory teeth sneered from cracked visages of bone. Eyeless sockets stared emptily into the distance. Jaws jutted open in an eternal scream. Once, the footmen of Lordaeron had guarded this city against the dead. Now, they guarded it against the living.

There is no patrolling. No change of shifts. There is no need. All those strung along Andorhal's battlements will remain forever awake, standing vigilant against threats to the dark bastion and its insidious master.

A skeleton without a mandible is the first to see the foe. A black armored figure, striding purposely across the field, toothed sword in hand. The skeleton does not warn its comrades. Again, there is no need. They are connected, together as one, to the vast conscience of the lich. He sees what they see, and they see what he sees. Silent, menacing, they await his command.

And then the command is given. _Kill._

Dozens of emaciated hands reach for the quivers lashed to gaunt backs. The arrows are of simple make, lacking the sophistication inherent in elven shafts. Each was mass-manufactured in Scourge war forges, piled in stacks alongside swords, axes, and a veritable armory of other weapons. The skeletal fingers do not choose. There is no choice to be made in these shafts, nor can their wielders choose for themselves. Arrows are plucked out from quivers with mechanical efficiency and set against curved grooves. Arms draw back, pulling bowstrings taut with bony digits. And then they loose, without order and without emotion.

A hundred shafts soar on lofty pinions. The first volley.

* * *

By the Blood of Corax, this is degrading.

The swarm of projectiles rain down from the skies, and I force myself to remain immobile. The instinct to dodge and weave prickles along my skin and I feel my muscles knotting to prevent that instinct from taking hold. My purpose has been given. I am the shield of humanity. Alas that the being I am shielding is not human.

I feel her bracing tight against my back. Revulsion spears into my hearts. It is almost painful.

A diversion, the Commissar had said. That is what I am supposed to be in this grand plan. Were I one of Dorn's favored sons, or even Guilliman's, I would have protested this role and had that not worked, done it with fierce loathing in my mind. Space Marines were not created to be decoys. That is the work for the Imperial Guard, or the Planetary Defense Force, should they prove sufficient to the task at hand. We are meant to be the blade to the throat, the spear thrust that kills, the blow that brings the hated foe to his knees. If we are not ordered to do this, then our worth is wasted. Every Astartes chapter, despite the differences in dogma and ideals, understand this simple fact, the Death Spectres included. But my part in the Commissar's plan is not my main grievance. It is _her_. I had argued that she was unnecessary for the role I am to play, that her presence was not required for the scheme to succeed. I was countered by Vareesa of all people, who elucidated the point that I could not be a decoy without a means to make myself a threat. I had cursed inwardly then, that the Mechanicus had not developed a way for bolt shells to arc over walls.

The arrows come in a storm of whistling feathers and gleaming steel. My arm lashes out, and batters away a dozen of the incoming shafts before they can hit home. The rest though, fall in a cloud of hissing metal. My suit registers multiple impacts across its surface. No alarms trill inside my helm. Astartes protection is proof against lasfire. It would be an insult for it to fail against the primitive projectiles that now assails it.

The presence behind me crowds closer as the shafts that miss me bury themselves into the ground. They stick there, feathered ends quivering. It is with a trace of guilt that I find myself wishing for them to have struck her instead.

Keina springs out from behind me as the last Scourge shaft lands, legs braced. Her dexterous hand fits not one, not two, but three arrows to the groove of her bow. Supple arms pulls the bowstring back and then releases, sending three steel tipped darts towards the distant battlements. She does this two more times, loosing a total of nine arrows in the space it takes a normal man to loose one.

I find myself skeptical. I am well aware of this xeno's aptitude in the ways of archery, but surely even this is too much? My visors follow the arrows' path, magnifying the view and calculating trajectories. I see the first three hit, driving into tattered frames and piercing what little armor that remained. The next three follow suit, arcing over the walls and splitting leering skulls. The last three refuse to be bested. Gruesome heads snap back, quivering shafts sunken into fleshless bone. Commendable accuracy. It is a shame none amongst the nine killed their targets.

I hear Keina curse as the return volley lifts from the parapets. A second later and she is behind me once more, her body pressed close against my back. The pangs of admiration that I have been feeling are swiftly replaced by disgust. How loathsome it is to have an alien so near to me without a means for me to make my displeasure known. I force down the bile in my throat with difficulty. The distaste I find myself dealing is something I will have to suffer through. After all, the plan the humans have come up for themselves requires this, as repugnant as 'this' is.

"How many have fallen?" the night elf asks as the barrage of shafts fall all around us.

"You cannot see for yourself?" I grunt back as I separate a few arrows from their intended paths with my chainsword.

"If I could, I wouldn't be asking you," Keina replies crossly. I am bemused. In these past weeks that I have known this xeno, never once had she appeared irate. Always the picture perfect of calm, this alien. I wonder why she behaves differently now. Maybe it is because of the shafts streaking down from the skies.

"None," I say as a particularly troublesome projectile bounces off the ceramite surface of my helm. I hear her swear in response and a thin smile crosses my lips.

The elf leaps from behind me as the last Scourge shaft sinks into soft soil, arrow already positioned to the groove of her bow. This time, she is more deliberate in loosing. The reason why is soon apparent to me. Swirling tendrils of a matter I cannot describe dance around the tip of her shaft, afflicting the steel point with a purplish luminescence that appears almost otherworldly. My gauntlet reflexively twitches for the boltgun resting by my hip. I have seen this before, witnessed this xeno send what at first appeared to be normal arrows streaking into the sky before turning into gleaming missiles of indescribable energy midway in their flight. Psyker, was my first thought, but later observations proved this theory wrong. The alien did not display the usual… eccentricities… that was attributed to those who are psychically gifted. And never once was my psyche intruded when I was near her. Hence, whatever power she drew upon was not from the Warp. I find myself both consoled and worried about that fact.

Keina releases, and the arrow launches from its resting place. It blitzes for the battlements, shifting into a gleaming bolt of azure energy as it nears the stone walls. My visors amplify the view once more, and I am greeted with the sight of a skeleton bursting apart in an explosion of purple light.

"Good shot," the compliment comes from my mouth before my mind can stop it. My teeth clench in self-disgust. Consorting with these xenos is eroding my nerves, and I am repulsed to say that I am growing accustomed to their continued presence. Throne Above, just how far will I fall?

The night elf, on the other hand, seems pleased at my reluctant praise, though she does her best in hiding it. I catch a glimpse of a smile forming on her features as she takes her place behind me. Before I can think on this matter, the return volley from the Scourge bowmen are already soaring towards us. My chainsword rises in my fist to greet the projectiles as before.

"Are you not afraid of death?"

The question makes me glance back at Keina in surprise. Her luminous eyes are centered on my helm, but the emotion they contain are hidden to me as my face is hidden to her. I turn to regard the descending barrage and point to the black feathered shafts coming at us with my chainblade.

"If this is death, then it is a poor death."

"That is not what I meant."

"Then what is it you meant?"

"Death," the xeno murmurs as she flattens herself against me, "Does it hold no sway over your heart?"

Falling shafts descend upon me, and I nearly burst out laughing at this rich irony.

"What is it?" Keina snaps, "Did I say something funny?"

I do not reply, and instead answer her question with my own.

"Are you not afraid of death?"

"I am terribly afraid," she whispers as arrows bury themselves in the earth around us, "Each time I am to go into battle for the sake of my people, I feel sick in my heart and wish for the morrow's bloodshed to go away."

"That is normal," I grit my teeth as a shaft rebounds from my faceplate, "That is a feeling all warriors feel before a battle."

"And you do not feel such things?" the xeno presses, "The feelings of fear? The feelings of wretchedness?"

"I do not."

Keina frowns at me before abandoning the cover my power armor provides, arrow already taut against bowstring. She looses and leaps back, shoulder pressed against the ceramite that is my second skin.

"How can you not?"

"It has been bred out of me."

"What?" the alien's tone expresses her skepticism.

"It has been bred out of me," I repeat as my visors track the Scourge return volley.

"That doesn't make sense," Keina says.

"Sense is relative. What makes sense to you, I find to be madness."

"You think wanting to live is madness?"

"No. I think being afraid of death is madness."

"Many people, including those of your own race, would disagree with you."

"That is because they are illogical."

The night elf half-smiles at this.

"This is the first time you have criticized humanity."

I batter away an incoming hail of shafts before I respond.

"That was not criticism. That was the truth."

"Then how is it illogical for one to fear death?"

"Dying is just one facet of living," I grunt, "If you are afraid of dying, then you are afraid of living."

Keina does not reply at first. An arrow is fitted to her bow, and she rushes out from cover to engage the Scourge. The shaft flies straight and true, and my enhanced vision catches sight of an emaciated archer disappearing in a flash of unleashed energy.

"I think you are the one being irrational," the alien says as soon as she is behind me.

"Am I? I think not," I eye the incoming enemy volley with disinterest, "It is our fate to die as soon as we are birthed into this universe. Whether we die from the aging of years or at the tips of enemy blades is irrelevant. The simple fact remains that our destiny will lead to death in one way or another. To die is natural. It is the way things are meant to be. The logical conclusion is that we are already dead the moment we come into existence in this galaxy."

"That is a grim way of thinking," Keina murmurs.

"The truth is always grim. But it will still exist no matter what you think otherwise."

"Logic cannot explain everything," the xeno states this with a hint of defiance in her voice, though I know not why, "Emotions are things that were never meant to be described in such a cold manner. What of hate and envy? What of faith and trust?" the night elf's tone grows soft at her last sentence, "What of love?"

"Love," I smile thinly, "Now that is another illogical subject."

Keina's lips tighten. Moments of silence pass between the two of us, and I find myself both gladdened and downcast that I have killed the conversation. Through all of this, the Scourge shafts rain down unabated, and I discover that more and more of the black feathered projectiles are being shot from behind the parapets.

It appears the diversion was a success. I can see twice as many skeletal visages as before peering at us from behind the walls. The lich is no fool. No doubt it has already concluded we will be assaulting the north wall. A wise deduction. We _will_ be assaulting the north wall. But it is the way we will do so that will win us this siege.

The rest of this plan will either fail or succeed at human hands.

* * *

Tendrils of arcane matter whipped from materializing portals all across Andorhal's north wall, lashing the skeletal minions that guarded it with lethal force. Bone snapped and cracked as the sorcerous work of Doan and his acolytes stormed across the battlements. Unholy frames burst asunder wherever the garlands of energy lashed, exploding into fragments of corpse-wreckage. The Scourge archers ignored the tempest of destruction in their midst, and continued pouring arrows into at the armored giant and the night elf that hid behind him. Even as their own comrades came raggedly apart around them, they still loosed shaft after shaft from their bows, and paid no heed to the clearing that was growing larger and larger across the parapets.

Loksey emerged from one shimmering gateway, a grunt coming from his lips as he landed on cold stone. A dozen more came with him, leaping from portals wreathed in sorcerous energy. Slung on their backs and clenched in their hands were not the usual bows and quivers stocked full of shafts. Instead, they carried something far more potent.

A skeletal monster with soulless eye sockets turned as its dull mind registered the sudden appearance of the diminutive force of humans. Had it still retained some measure of flesh across its bleached face, Loksey reckoned it would be wearing an expression of astonishment. The Houndmaster's finger tightened on the trigger, and the shotgun held in his gloves belched a thunderous roar in response. The skeleton, still wearing the ragged remnants of the colors of Lordaeron's army, disappeared in a hail of jagged projectiles. Those that crowded around the hapless Scourge were buffeted by a tempest of metal shards, crooked nails, and whatever else could be fitted into a blunderbuss barrel. Revenant bowmen were thrown hissing from their positions and cast back into the oblivious forms of their kin. Some lay still on the stone floor, dead and unmoving, but the majority returned to their feet with wobbly slowness, promised malice etched across their monstrous faces. The Houndmaster saw one whose bone visage was neatly bisected by a steel splinter rise from its prone position, skeletal hands reaching for a sheathed blade strapped to its hip. Loksey grimaced. Even the lowliest of Scourge were durable beyond the limits of a human body. Had the archers stationed on these walls been any of the mortal races of Azeroth, they would be writhing in pain on the floor from the projectiles embedded in their flesh. Still, the Scarlet huntsmen had come prepared.

A second after Loksey's initial salvo, the rest of the kill-team discharged their weapons in unison, a brutal volley of debris erupting from the looming barrels of each blunderbuss amid thick clouds of smoke. The torrent of projectiles scythed down the skeletons manning the battlements like wheat, shattering apart their ghastly frames into unsalvageable ruins.

As unholy heathens fell and died, the Houndmaster was already reaching for the second blunderbuss strapped to his back. There were enough of the weapons stocked in the Scarlet Armory to equip all one hundred of his warriors, a number that was distributed evenly to the men selected for this mission. One hundred guns for thirteen people. He thanked the Light that whoever invented the blunderbuss made it compact enough to carry in multiples.

The leering countenance of a revenant emerged from the wafting smoke, bow in one hand, and a well-worn hatchet swinging in the other. Loksey discharged the second shotgun point blank into the skeleton's tattered chest, and blasted it backwards into the veils of settling smoke. He heard his fellow kill-team members doing the same, twelve more booming roars that dulled his senses with their discordant noise. Shadowy silhouettes half-hidden in the clouds of spent gunpowder were sent hurtling back, momentous force as well as lethal projectiles lifting them off their feet.

Only two volleys, and the cloud of smoke was enough to blind a man. Stifling a cough, the Houndmaster surged forward, freshly loaded shotguns in each hand. His men followed, clearing through the smoke with commendable haste. Skeletons rose to resist, wicked blades cleaving through the air. The kill-team fired as they ran, and ended the lives of those that sought to delay them with buckshot spewing from their guns. Loksey presented a skeletal horror nearest to him with a barrelful of slugs and smashed another aside with the still smoking weapon. A hissing revenant to his left bared a broadsword in his direction. The shotgun gripped in his other hand spat its load into the Scourge's face and sent it along with two if its cohorts flailing from the parapet.

Instinctively, the now empty guns were tossed away, clattering to the battlement floor. New ones took their place, and the kill-team continued in their mad dash forward.

Arrows whistled from the back, and nearly ended the mission then and there. Loksey grunted an order, and the two rearmost of his squad swiveled on their feet, blunderbusses in both hands. Four shotguns belched together as one, and blasted apart the archers that harried them from the rear.

The Houndmaster resisted the urge to grin. He was a dour man, and rare were the times he honestly smiled. But today was an exception. He wasn't sure why. One thing was certain, however. He _really_ liked shotguns.

Halfway there now.

Blocking the huntsmen from their goal were what was left of the skeleton archers, now made keenly aware of the humans in their midst. Bows were discarded, and swords, axes, and maces replaced them in ice-cold hands. The Crusaders didn't slow or pause at this show of force. Still running full-pelt along the battlements, they unleashed a furious volley from their guns, and swept the walls with shot. Loksey lead the blitz forward, the blunderbuss held in each hand discharging simultaneously into the reeling Scourge. The resistance disintegrated, in some cases literally, as the last barrage took its toll. Those that remained were now in turn outnumbered by the kill-team.

The huntsmen smashed into the undead bowmen at full charge, and sent what remained wailing over the battlements.

The wooden door that was their objective had long decayed with the passing of time and proved no match to the strength in Locksey's leg. The rotten timber splintered apart, and they were in.

The kill-team had secured the gatehouse.

* * *

The plan called for a small team to fight their way into the structure looming over Andorhal's immense gates. From there, the thick doors could be opened via a system of pulleys and levers stored within. However, all of this would have been for naught if the Scourge poured forth from their lairs and prevented the Crusaders from entering. If they could jam the entrance with a mass of bodies, there was no conceivable way the humans could get through. Whitemane's force did not possess the numbers to fight a war of attrition with an enemy that could be continuously reanimated.

And hence, for the second step of the plan, as devised by the Commissar herself. A company of elites would enter Andorhal in the same way the huntsmen appeared on the wall, and position themselves with their backs to the shut gates. They would stop any attempt for the Scourge to defend the entranceway. Many had volunteered for this honor; Vachon, Melrache, and even Perrine. The Myrmidons demanded it, and had drawn blood from their palms with their blades as a gesture of resolve. The valor of these warriors was indisputable, but the choice of whom this honor belonged to was a foregone conclusion.

First Company would be the ones to shed first blood.

Portals materialized behind Andorhal's ominous gates, flickering into being amidst leaping garlands of arcane energy. Bulky figures encased in plate emerged, stepping forward and crushing the gravel that lay underfoot. The lightning sigils carved upon the hammers they bore gleamed with eager intensity, and the sorcerous runes inscribed across their armor winked and flashed in return. Fifty men and one woman would see this simple duty done.

A semi-circle is formed, a thin line that bulged outwards from the massive gates. Let the undead come. They would find a wall of steel and death waiting for them.

A mass of blood-curdling howls fill the air, coming from hundreds of decayed mouths. The lich had sensed the danger to his craven den. The Terminators tensed. They could hear the shrieking laughter of maniacal geists, the slavering groans of wretched zombies, the dog-like pants of hungry ghouls, and the dry rattles from skeletal constructs. Minutes ago, Andorhal had been eerily silent. Now, it had come alive to expel its intruders.

First Company waited in unnatural silence, fingers tight on the grips of Thunder Hammers, arms strapped to Storm Shields.

"A storm is in the making," comments Tilneras, breaking the hush that had settled.

"So it is," grunts Gerald, "We will ride it out all the same."

"How many do you think there will be?" this, unsurprisingly from Illion.

"Enough to sate your battle lust old man," Worrick replies affably.

The silence that descended again on the fifty-one Champions was not shared by the Scourge slaves that surged along cobblestone roads for the gateway. Their howls grew in volume as they neared.

"I am surprised you have not given a speech yet," Yvette murmurs from her spot among the line.

"I am not the angel," growls Herod in response, eyes eager and searching for the first sign of undead.

"You should say something," the warrior-woman pushes.

"Fine. Four words then."

"What four words?"

_"Not one step back."_

Gerald grinned behind his helm. Worrick chuckled with mirth. Yvette frowned in contemplation. Tilneras made a blessed sign to the Light with his hand. Illion laughed out loud.

"Now that's what I want to hear!" the aged knight makes his approval known.

The first Scourge appears, a gangly ghoul bounding forward on four legs. It spots the formation of crimson clad warriors, and an undulating wail sounds from its unhinged orifice. Its gurgling cry is answered by hundreds more. The undead have found their prey.

"Here comes the storm," Tilneras whispered.

Plated boots dug into the soil, finding purchase in the firm ground. Not one step back.

All too swiftly the ghoul is joined by its unholy comrades. They swarm forward, rushing on decayed legs over streets of stone. Such is their number, that the Terminators cannot discern a single face within the throng; just an oncoming wave of undeath.

"Give them nothing," Herod's snarl is heard over the unholy wails of the foe.

The Scourge horde nears within striking distance, a solid mass of moving limbs and gnashing fangs.

"Take from them, _everything_."

First Company met the swarm of frenzied monsters with their Thunder Hammers swinging.

* * *

When the city of Andorhal grew large enough to warrant the need for walls and battlements; the mayor at that time was determined that the citizens under his responsibility would be protected by the surest means necessary. And so, well-known stonemasons were hired to construct the towering edifices that would stand firm against the most menacing of assaults. The gates, however, were under the management of a visionary blacksmith whose name was lost to the annals of time. The blacksmith had created a way for the entrance of Andorhal to be guarded by solid gates of steel when the gates consisting of crisscrossed iron bars were the norm. The slabs of metal would lift upwards via a pulley system stationed in the gatehouse above. A lever would be pulled, and the complicated apparatus would begin the taxing labor of raising the gates with lengths of thick iron chain. It had been a marvel of its time, and many were the metalworkers that would journey from far away kingdoms to study the mechanism's workings. However, the mechanism itself was a complex series of gears that required constant cleaning and maintenance. But this did not deter the blacksmith or his employer all those years ago. After all, Andorhal had a substantial number of footmen and militia to guard its ramparts, all of whom could be counted on to ensure the pulleys would continue to function. These factors had already been considered and debated upon by the city council, and the blacksmith's vision soon became reality.

What was not under consideration, was the fact that a massive wave of undead creatures would sweep away the resistance in Andorhal in the generations to come and occupy it for years. What was also not under consideration, was the fact that the ones who would be occupying the city would be notoriously bad at maintaining their surroundings.

Loksey strained against the chains with all his might, but to no avail. It wasn't moving. The damn thing was so rusted that at first the huntsmen had mistaken it for a piece of scrap metal. The Houndmaster glanced back. Twelve pairs of tired eyes gazed back at him, faces wreathed in sweat. They had been going at this thing for nearly ten minutes now, with nary a hint of it budging. Something had jammed the mechanism to prevent the lever not two feet away from controlling the pulley system, and so the huntsmen had tried operating the gates manually. Now that had been a lesson in futility.

The chain falls from the Houndmaster's sore palms and lands with a metallic rattle. Well, the High Inquisitor couldn't fault him for not trying. Of course, this relief meant little. If the gates remained shut, then the Crusaders couldn't feasibly take the city. No siege engines were available and the idea of ladders that Vishas had proposed to be made was abandoned in favor of Whitemane's plan.

The assault had failed before it could move past the beginning phase.

What made this worse, was that the Scarlet Champions had already been teleported past the gatehouse to engage the Scourge seeking to defend it. Loksey was familiar with the fighting prowess of the elite of the Crusade, and knew that even without their enchanted suits of armor, they were a match for the best the Alliance or the Horde could offer. But the Scourge was neither the Alliance nor the Horde, and against the numbers that still thronged the ruins of Andorhal, First Company would be hard-pressed to prevail. He, as well as the rest of the kill-team knew this. They had been hearing the clamor of battle for at least three minutes now, and though it sounded like the Terminators were holding well against the undead onslaught; that couldn't last against a foe as relentless as the Scourge. Herod and his knights would kill hundreds of the slavering creatures, perhaps even thousands, but one by one, they would fall.

Loksey strode for the sundered doorway. His men followed, an air of defeat clinging to their frames.

As much as he wanted to pin this blame on someone, he couldn't. Whitemane's plan had been sound on paper. Indeed, it had been very well thought-out in its design. However, the Commissar had failed to account for tiny factors that could throw her whole operation into disarray. But that was due to her inexperience in generalship rather than incompetence. The rank bestowed upon her by the higher echelons of the Crusade was one of the clergy; a function similar to a chaplain. The position of High Commander had been given to Mograine, and Renault fitted that role well; grim and logical compared to Sally's fire and brimstone ways. Renault was a fine military leader, and it had saddened the Houndmaster to see so noble a man fall to Scourge trickery. Sally, while possessing a keen mind as well as unshakeable resolve, was an unsuitable replacement to an experienced combat commander. It was a testament to her strength of character that the Crusaders of Tirisfal managed to keep their holdings from being overrun. Still, she was no commander of soldiers compared to Mograine.

The Houndmaster cleared the entrance in two quick strides, and turned to see the carnage that raged below him.

A thin line of crimson warplate held the line, Thunder Hammers unleashing lethal energies with every resonant clap. Undead monsters were battered back with every swing, black blood spilling into the air. Pulped and ruined were the corpses of decayed creatures, arranged in a grisly carpet before First Company's feet; those that had failed to excel in combat against the finest the Crusade had to offer. Together, fifty-one warriors stood steadfast against the Lich King's creations, a solid block of resistance that the wave of undeath could not dislodge. The sight was a heart-stirring one, and Loksey's chest beat faster at the incredible act of bravery being performed before his eyes. How disappointing the sacrifice of these courageous knights would be in vain.

"Aid them," he murmured to his kill-team, despite knowing that there was little his diminutive band could do.

The huntsmen spring into action, seizing discarded bows from the battlement floors and plucking Scourge shafts from prone quivers. Arrow after arrow, shaft after shaft, the Crusaders send black pinioned death hissing into the massed ranks of the foe. Monstrous heads snap back, and bodies slump back in defeat. But the horde of undead is as inexorable as the ocean tide. Packed below the walls in a seething, living wave, the Scourge continue on undaunted by the pinpricks raining down on them from above. The ranks are so close together that those freshly slain by arrow fire do not have the space to fall, and are carried along by the momentum of the onrushing swarm.

Loksey leaves the kill-team to their work and hurries along the parapets. The bone remnants of skeletal archers litter his path, but these he ignored. His mind was too busy formulating a way to break the bad news to the Lady Commissar.

A dazzling web of sorcerous energy springs forth three paces from the Houndmaster, forcing him to a halt. A feminine silhouette appears and for a second, Loksey believes it is the High Inquisitor herself emerging. The thought vanishes as the figure reaches for the quiver full of arrows slung on her back.

Keina Stormsong regarded the scene below her as she landed lightly on the battlements, moon-shaped eyes focused and alert.

The Houndmaster grunted. While he didn't hate elves as did his fellow compatriots, he didn't exactly like them either.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

The night elf turns at his question, and Loksey notices with discomfort the inhuman grace that is attached to the motion.

"I was sent by the angel. My eyes are sharp enough to see beyond those of any human. I can help direct the flow of troops as well as spot Scourge concentrations from within the city."

Loksey gestures with his arm in the direction of collapsed houses and dilapidated structures.

"What can you spot then?"

Keina squints, and her jaw clenches reflexively as she sees what the huntsmen had known for some time.

"By Elune," she muttered.

The Houndmaster pushes past her, intent on informing the Commissar of the ill news.

"What about the gates?" the night elf calls after him.

Loksey ignored her and pressed on, dreading the words he would have to say to a commander he had no respect for.

* * *

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Whitemane's stave cracks against unyielding stone again and again as she unleashes her frustration. The Commissar looks up helplessly to the towering battlements, face a contorted visage of powerless anger, "This cannot be! This cannot be!"

Vachon and Melrache, swords still sheathed, drag the furious woman back, features alight with the same helpless look.

"By all that is holy, we've accounted for everything! Everything! But not this!" she continues to shriek, "To be stopped by a piece of rusty metal! Damn it all! That's just not fair!"

"My lady, not all is lost," Vachon tries to placate the struggling Commissar, "we still have time… perhaps-"

"There are men behind this wall, captain," Whitemane hisses, biting her lip with such force that a trickle of blood seeped down her chin, "Every minute we linger outside these walls is a minute First Company fights unaided and unsupported. Do not tell me we still have time when there are none left!"

Vachon steps back, jaw working up and down to form a reply that would not come. Melrache blinks several times, uneasy at the former Inquisitor's fury. Whitemane returned her gaze towards the source of her rage, muttering curses under her breath as her eyes searched desperately for a solution. All could hear the sound of distant fighting, the bellowed litany of First Company, and the unholy wails of their opponents, muffled by layers of thick stone.

"What ails you, Guardsmen?" a voice, grating yet all too familiar, sounds from behind them.

The Iron Angel stomps forward, a cylindrical canister fused to the bottom of the weapon he carried. They all noticed the blue flame that flickered at the weapon's end, but none dared to ask.

"The gates will not open," Whitemane answers almost immediately, a tinge of relief evident in her voice.

"And why is that?" the question is directed to her, but the angel's visors are focused on the looming obstruction that spans as far as the eye can see.

"Loksey tells us something has jammed the gate mechanism," Vachon shakes his head reluctantly, "There is no way in now."

His declaration is met with a chuckle from the giant.

"No fortress is impenetrable, captain. All have some form of weakness."

"Aha!" Melrache smiles brightly, displaying a set of perfect white teeth, "The angel has found a flaw within the walls!"

"Is that so, my lord?" the Commissar's voice is hopeful.

"There is one weakness that I can discern," the angel answers.

"And what is that?"

"That the walls are made from stone."

A collected murmur of disbelief sounds from the warriors gathered before the walls. Vachon voices what they all think.

"How is stone a weakness?"

"Because it is not adamantium."

White flames burst from the barrel of the angel's weapon, spewing forth in a cone-shaped wave of unbearable heat. The fire impacts meter-thick stone and sticks there, coating the surface like glue. The giant pans his weapon left and right, until a section of the wall wide enough for six men to stand abreast is aflame. The inferno rages with the fury of a newborn star, and scorches the stone into a fused mess of blackened obsidian.

"How is this possible?" Whitemane utters in shock as the ironclad warrior ceases the torrent of flames and holsters his weapon behind his back, "How can fire undo stone?"

The angel does not respond to this question. Instead he gives an order.

"Stand back."

Men and women hurry from the walls, anticipation warring with disbelief across their faces. The giant sprints forward as soon as the last Crusader withdraws, his running gait a blur to mortal eyes. The last few feet he leaps, and a roar comes from his helm as his plate clad body connects with the smoldering section of Andorhal's north wall.

"For the Emperor!"

Like glass, the stone shatters, fragments of obsidian exploding outwards in an avalanche of debris. With a groaning rumble, the scorched section crumbles outwards in a cloud of pulverized rock, chunks of barricade smashing into the ground and bouncing towards the stunned Crusaders.

"Holy shit," it is once again Vachon that voices what everyone thinks.

* * *

Keina Stormsong was falling.

A second ago she had been sending arrow after arrow into the Scourge mass that thronged the battlements below and charging in a headlong rush towards the resolute Terminators. There had been ample enough ammo for her to use in the form of the still abundant shafts contained in the quivers of the fallen Scourge archers. Every shot had struck their mark, though the sentinel captain felt no satisfaction in that. One might as well feel pride for shooting arrows into an ocean. There were literally that many of the foe.

And now, she was in free-fall, though her stunned mind could not quite figure out why. She had time to register the fact that the portion of the parapets she had been standing on was crumbling before her grip on the stone floor was lost. Her limbs desperately flailed out to grab at something, anything, but falling debris and swirling dust were the only things within arm reach. The drop was a good fifteen meters down, and would no doubt prove fatal. As she descended, hands still grasping at empty air, Keina resolved that this was a really stupid way to die.

The breath is knocked out of her before she can think of anything else. The night elf blinked. This certainly did not feel like dying. No sudden pain followed swiftly by blackness. Just a soreness in her back from where she had impacted. The dust cloud settles, and Keina becomes aware of the immense arms supporting her weight. One is bracing her back, thick as a cannon's barrel, while her legs are draped over the other. With dawning comprehension, she turns her head and is greeted with the image of a silver skull with outstretched wings stylized on a black chestplate.

"This is the second time I have had to carry you," Avarian states wryly as his armored form materializes from the veil of floating debris.

Keina's delicate hand stretched out, slender fingers rigid with trepidation. She finds her leg, dangling from the god's grip. She pinched herself. The pain is there. Good. This wasn't a dream then.

The god stomps over the settled rubble, now a ramp of crushed stone and fallen debris, and into the outskirts of Andorhal.

"The Emperor is with us," the giant growls in satisfaction, words that the night elf agreed wholeheartedly with. For facing them, are the backs of the Scourge host, concentrated on the ragged line of Terminators, visible fighting in the distance.

"Tell me Keina, since you have a penchant for questions, if you were I, what would you do in this situation?" the question surprises her, but her reply is near automatic.

"Strike from the rear. Crush them from two sides and annihilate them."

Avarian's response is a throaty laugh.

Black clad limbs lower, and the sentinel captain eases herself to the ground.

"Thank you," she mutters.

"Thank me by killing Scourge," the god replies, unlimbering a thickset gun with slender barrels from his back.

Trunk-like legs stride forward, accompanied by the snarling of mechanical joints. A flickering blue flame erupts from the weapon's barrel, sinister and malevolent in its mad dance. Bouts of lusty cheers sound from behind them, and Keina swivels her head in time to see the first of the Crusaders clamber over the rubble. Her lips part into a soft smile and she turns to join the giant in his advance.

A crimson wave follows both of them, wielding steel swords in mailed fists and brandishing heavy shields in plated arms.

A plume of white fire erupts from the front of the Scarlet charge, man-made dragonbreath scouring decomposed flesh and disintegrating weathered bone. Arrows follow the plume of scorching flame, piercing pallid hides and burrowing deep into the gristle that lay underneath.

Behind the god and the sentinel, comes the Crusaders.

The tide of humanity crashes into the rear of the Scourge mass with a sound akin to thunder.

* * *

_Leafy8765: Well, plasma gunners in the Imperial Guard usually wear gloves when wielding their weapons. That, and Avarian was firing the plasma gun at a pretty quick rate, which while not overheating the thing, will still give off a good amount of heat._

_Kyuubi-Titan: It is possible. I believe Catachan was actually a world that the Tyranids failed to devour completely. What resulted in the forms of fauna and indigenous wildlife could very well happened with Azeroth. _

_Xelnagahomie: Exterminatus is bad for the plot. :P_

_Hammerchuckery: Thank you!_

_Salle1980: With any organization, even ones like the Scourge, there will be a certain amount of politics involved. In my opinion, the Scourge consists of a myriad of different factions, all of whom operate differently from each other. No doubt they will be all competing for the favor of the Lich King. That being said, a civil war between the Scourge is vastly unlikely as long as Arthas sits on his Frozen Throne._

_Devastation: You're welcome._

_Soulless Reader: Well, plasma in the 40k fluff is quite contradictory. Some novels will have them burn holes through power armor, while others will have them incinerate said suit of power armor along with whoever is inside. However, the basic description is, as you've said, 'hot as the sun', and logic dictates that if there's that much heat, there must be a good amount of light to go along with it. As for the lines you mentioned in your review, it was my fail attempt at humor. :P_

_Tyanifex: Thanks!_

_Blood of Sanguinius: Maybe there's some tactical genius in this chapter, eh?_

_Qaint: Well, I need to be conservative in placing Azeroth in the 40k universe. And though I'm positive an STC will do wonders for Avarian and his company, it's something that won't likely happen. The events of Cataclysm will be told in one of the two sequels I am planning._

_Ranger24: Yes, Quel'thelas will be involved. And no, while I am aware of tvtropes, I did not know there was a page for this story._

_Lord Coake: You're pretty much spot on in terms of the abhuman subject. Tauren would most likely be delegated as beastmen in the 40k verse. As for trolls, no idea about them yet. :P_

_Avid Reader Guy: Heh, try putting it down in writing. That always works for me._

_Tormented123: Thank you!_

_Madork Gunna: It should be noted that the orcs in Warcraft-verse were very similar to the orcs in Warhammer Fantasy in the first two Warcraft games. It was only in Warcraft III that they became the whole "noble savage" race that we see in WoW. _

_Lunatic Pandora1: Plasma guns can run out of ammo. They have 'magazine cores' if you will it, that can hold around ten shots per clip._

_Peanuckle: That may be very well true!_

_Pinto: The problem with that scenario, is that any Space Marine will be loathe to part with his equipment for others, especially abhumans, to take apart and study. They've been ingrained with the idea that their armaments are holy implements of the Emperor's Will after all!_

_Darth nylon544: In the fluff, it is implied that Eldrad did warn the Emperor before Horus's betrayal. However, the Horus Heresy series changed that to Eldrad trying to warn Fulgrim, who was already corrupted by the daemon in his xeno-tech sword. In my view, the Emperor is not an xenophobe at all. He detests the alien because humanity during the Age of Strife was nearly hunted to extinction by various xeno species. If an alien race were content to leave humanity alone, then the Emperor would likely have no quarrel with them. Of course, this being a grimdark universe, every xeno race out there wants a piece of humanity's cake._

_Timewatch: Yup. LoTR references for the win!_

_37: Grimdark Romance. :P_

_The Amazing chicken diner: I'm too busy these days to think up any original ideas. And I'm quite content writing stuff about 40k since I'm fascinated with its background._

_Viktorius: Thank you for the review!_

_CelticReaper: Here you go!_

_JagerPanzer: Extinction is so boring compared to coexisting. :D _

_Coranth: One of the reasons why this fic will last relatively long is because of the very reason you have described. Avarian's psycho-conditioning. An Astartes is ingrained with hatred for the enemies of mankind as well as an unfaltering loyalty to the Emperor and humanity. He won't be changing his views overnight, and it will take successive acts from the nonhumans around him to make him think differently. _

_Samurai89: The Scarlet Guard are Imperial Guardsmen… Just very low-tech ones. :P_

_Xynth: Honestly, I see myself finishing this story in two years, maybe a little bit more. I might even go back and edit the few chapters in the beginning which I think need a whole lot more detail. The plasma gun was in the crate, as well as a flamer, a meltagun, and a jump pack. The Scarlet Crusade will gradually develop into the regimented structure of the Imperial Guard we all know and love, but this will of course, take a while. I'm sure you'll agree with me that the transition from swords and shields to lasguns will be unfeasible if it occurs overnight. What will most likely occurs is a gradual transition from a group of religious fanatics to a well-drilled medieval force and then to a decent modern day army and on and on. Loksey's Scouts are, in my view, a very good basis for an Imperial Guard company. They fight from range, are logical enough to seek cover, and are generally less fanatical than their Crusader brethren. I think you'll like them in this chapter regardless of what I plan for them, however. :P_


	46. Blood Shed on Stone Streets

Chapter 45

One ship.

She exited the Empyrean in a haze of displaced energy, tendrils of Warp matter battering against her Gellar Fields. Looming, gargantuan structures dotted her adamantium hide; tall, gothic spires warring with spiked structures for dominance over her nine kilometer body. Her dagger-like prow split through the void of space, gliding forward with a grace that belied her bulky frame. Across her metal skin were inscribed skull and scythe symbols along with the Imperial Aquilla, detailing that she was a Battle Barge belonging to the Death Spectres Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes

Her name was _The Wings of Corax_, and she had come to retrieve a hero of the Chapter.

A signal, faint but discernable, had been discovered by the ship's astropaths, weeks before. When the council of Brother-Captains had learned who this signal belonged to, they had deliberated for an entire day their course of action. Were it any other battle-brother, then such deliberations would have been unnecessary. The chapter fleet was en route to Cadia, gateway to the Eye of Terror, and the most important planet in the Imperium of Man short of Holy Terra herself.

Foul tidings had forced the Imperium's hand, and the High Lords of Terra had called on all forces available to halt what tacticians were calling the Thirteenth Black Crusade. It would be on the surface of Cadia that the fate of the human race would be decided. The Death Spectres were tasked with guarding the fringes of the Imperium from the threat of the xeno, and hence, would be one of the last few to arrive. Fleet calculations dictated that no delays be allowed if the six hundred battle-brothers the chapter had contributed were to reach the Cadian system in time. But the man lost was _him_. A warrior whose valor was honored in the annals deep within the Librarium, and whose deeds were inscribed in legend to those that marched under the banner of Corax. It was worth the risk to have him back.

The lower echelons did not comprehend. To them, one man was insignificant compared to the Cadian theatre. One life compared to countless trillions. One life compared to the potential destruction of the human race. The decision should have been an obvious one. Brother-Sergeant Darkur himself led the delegation to protest. The man lost belonged to his squad, and though he felt the loss like a knife-wound in his chest, he understood that the life of one brother-marine was not sacred enough to warrant a delay in the fleet's progress.

The council of captains, surrounded by their advisors and complements of Terrorblade bodyguards, had listened without complaint to Darkur's logical arguments. They listened in calm patience as the Veteran Sergeant spoke, and when he was done, softly rebuked him. Darkur had been nonplussed. Had the man been a warrior of the fabled First Company, or a high-ranking brother of the officers corps, that he could understand. But the man in question was no Terminator armor clad veteran nor a Brother-Captain, merely a member of his Tactical Squad. He presented these thoughts to the assembly of gathered captains, hoping that his superiors would see reason.

Sad smiles were shared by the Astartes officers at this. If only their brothers knew.

_The Wings of Corax_ powered forward, immense thrusters belching fire into the cold space. Her target soon materialized into view, a planet orbiting a distant star much like ancient Terra did in the days of antiquity. It was here the signal pulsed, faint at first, but with growing strength as the Battle Barge neared. A Thunderhawk is dispatched, soaring from the shielded landing bay and entering the planet's verdant atmosphere. The Astartes strike vessel carries but one passenger; Chaplain Targon of noble Fifth Company. It will be his sacred duty to ensure the man lost still retains his purity and belief in the God-Emperor of Man.

The Thunderhawk returns shortly after landing, but now with two passengers instead of one. An honor guard marches to receive the warrior and the Chaplain, ceramite boots clacking against the adamantium ground in perfect unison. A welcome fit for a hero.

Like a ponderous beast, _The Wings of Corax_ turns, swiveling until one spiked side faces the planet.

Her duty is not yet done. The council of captains has been informed of dire news by the rescued warrior. Heresy dwells on this world; blasphemy that cannot be curtailed by bolter and chainsword alone. Humanity coexisting with alien-kind. Unthinkable. This world must die, and it must die in righteous fire. For nothing else can absolve the sin of this grave heresy.

Gun ports strung along the ship's surface, thick slabs of adamantium bearing the double-headed eagle, open with the sound of hissing pistons. Shells the size of tanks are loaded into massive cannons, mindless servitors slaving away at the consoles that link each weapon to the Battle Barge's ancient machine spirit. The command is given, sent through mind-impulse by the Captain of the Fleet.

The ship shudders as each and every cannon situated from her prow to stern fire in one simultaneous volley. Explosive projectiles are flung from immense gun barrels, a planet-killing barrage travelling at two-thirds the speed of light.

Mountains are vaporized. Forests burnt to ash. Entire cities enveloped in nuclear fire. The planet's crust splits and cracks, great ravines stretching from craters kilometers in diameter. Earthquakes ravage the despoiled earth seconds after, spreading like underground wildfire from the source that is each crater. And that was only the first volley.

The second salvo occurs three point four seconds after the first, and kills thousands less because the world's population has already been too ravaged by the first. The planet quakes as detonating shells pierce its skin, convulsing as massive explosions rip their way across its surface.

Lance batteries placed on turret towers strewn across _The Wings of Corax's_ back add to the carnage, sending spears of brilliant light stabbing into the darkness. Deep gorges are scorched into existence, great chasms that split the earth so that to those orbiting in space it appears as if a spider web has crisscrossed the planetary crust. A dozen beams smash into the world's sole ocean, boiling half of it away in a millisecond, and creating raging tsunamis in the aftermath. Hundred-foot waves crash against the abused continents, sweeping away city-ports and coastal villages in one destructive tide.

For ten whole minutes the battlebarge continues her devastating assault, unleashing broadside after broadside against the helpless world below. The ship's astropaths jerk and convulse in their seats, the dying scream of a planet rippling through their psychic conscience and playing havoc with their minds.

Abruptly, _The Wings of Cora_x ceases her unmerciful barrage. Enough munitions have been expended to extinguish all life on the world below ten times over. But there can be no chances taken, lest the taint spreads from this world to systems loyal to the Imperial Creed. Slowly, laboriously, the ship swings her armored prow towards the ravaged planet. The weapon next to be fired will require compensation for the massive recoil only her engines can provide.

Immense Graviometric coils built within the Battle Barge's hull glow ominously as energy is leeched from auxiliary systems to provide power for the weapon's enormous needs. The shell is hauled onto the firing rack by scores of servitor loading teams, five hundred tons of steel and death waiting to be primed and discharged. With a whine of pressurized motors, the shell is fed into the yawning abyss that is the cannon's barrel, hissing pistons propelling it into the embrace of multiple magnetic fields. The shell is accelerated, sent hurtling towards its target at the speed of light. A thunderous clap is heard by the crew, followed by the whole ship shaking as the Nova Cannon belches forth its deadly payload.

Like a god hurling lightning in the ancient legends of Terran lore, the projectile streaks down from the heavens, and impacts against the earthen hide with enough force to mimic a falling comet. The shell burrows into the ground layer; its tip is designed to penetrate the hulls of enemy ships, and the kilometers of bedrock and stone that it surges through is laughable resistance compared to that. The charge detonates deep within the planet's crust, timed to inflict maximum damage to the surrounding area.

A continent-sized chunk of the planet's innards disappears, vaporized from existence in one almighty explosion. Not even the tiniest of atoms are spared. The implosion device that is the source of the detonation wrenches apart any matter caught within the blast, and the countless tons of earth and soil is no exception. But this was merely a wound to the planet, a grave injury to the world's flesh that while could not be healed, was far from lethal. It is not the explosion that would seal this planet's fate and the fate of those that still clung to life on its blackened surface, but instead, something much simpler.

The world shudders in the wake of the destruction it has weathered, tremors appearing beneath every inch of its despoiled skin. The kinetic energy unleashed by the blast is immense, and at the close confines offered under the planet's surface, the results are devastating. Cracks ripple their way through the planetary mantle, splitting a hundred different paths to the world's fiery core. It is here the energy makes its way to, utilizing the tears and fractures that appear. The first wave of energy connects with the volatile core and what follows next rocks_ The Wings of Corax_ like a boat in the morning squall.

Pieces of sundered earth and ruptured tectonic plates are expelled outwards in a sphere of flying debris as the planet shatters apart from within. The wave of debris is swiftly followed by a blast of concussive force, enough to smash the Battle Barge from its trajectory and render every sensor aboard its bridge inoperable for several seconds. The human and Astartes crew ride out this storm without complaint. They are well used to the rigors of space combat, and the current staff has witnessed seven accounts of Exterminatus being performed, of which three they themselves have participated in. The destruction they have rained down on the world below makes that number four.

The warship tilts her prow away, her duty finally done. Her thrusters light up, orange flame erupting from nozzles the size of basketball courts. The immense engines behind them are directing enough energy to power a small city, but even that is barely enough to move the massive bulk that is _The Wings of Corax_. More energy is needed, more power for the hungry Machine Spirit.

The astropaths locked in their thrones aboard the ship's bridge stiffen in concentration as their minds scour a way through the Empyrean. The path must be swift, but it also must be safe, for the Warp is fickle, and one miscalculation can plunge the Battle Barge into the Immaterium for countless centuries. The faintest of nods from the head astropath and the captain gives the order.

With a howl of turbines, the orange fire spewing from the Battle Barge's thrusters turn to a white-hot in color. The ship accelerates, speeding from a cruising velocity to one fourth light speed in the space it takes for a mortal man to blink. Reality is shattered, the stuff of nightmares leaking into the cold void as a Warp Portal thrashes into existence before the prow of _The Wings of Corax_. The vessel spears forward, and enters the flickering gateway like the tip of a harpoon piercing the surface of a raging wave.

She leaves behind the shattered remnants of the planet slowly drifting in space and the echoed memories of a murdered people.

Varian Wrynn awoke from his dream with sweat on his brow.

* * *

"You are late," says Herod, his armor slick with gore, "And we had to kill all this Scourge without you."

The Champion's arm sweeps in a gesture towards the mound of dead corpses piled before his feet.

"Terribly sorry," Melrache smiles as he picks his way through the carpet of slain foes, delivering fatal thrusts with his blade to those undead that still moved, "But I'm sure you had fun without us."

"It was… immensely satisfying," the Terminator admits, and pushes through the heap of motionless cadavers to meet with his brothers-in-arms.

The rest of First Company do the same, wading through the piles of defeated enemies and crushing the dead underfoot. None have fallen, though their plated forms display tremendous wear. Dented helms, lacerated chestplates, unhinged joints. The armor would need to be repaired, and soon if the Champions wish for their protection to continue. To say the undead assault was fierce would be a grave understatement. Many of the Terminators are now slumping to the ground, the adrenaline that had just so recently given them vigor fading to be replaced by exhaustion.

Blackened ichor flowed like rivers, seeping into the gaps in the cobblestone streets, and painting a miserable picture in an already depressing landscape.

The Crusader swordsmen had rushed into the fray as soon as the walls collapsed, and much of the blood that lay on the tiled floor was shed by them. It had been surprisingly easy work. The undead had been solely focused on the ragged line of Champions, and their attention was divided only when their rear ranks were being scythed down by Scarlet blades. Halted in the front by the stoic Terminators and crushed from the back by the swordsmen, the horde of Scourge were ill-fated to survive. Only the swiftest of the undead managed to escape, ghouls and geists scurrying from the chaotic melee on their malformed legs back into the city. The skeletons and zombies fared the worst, their slow gait allowing the humans to butcher them in droves before a scant handful squeezed past the tightening cordon of Crusaders.

Many within the Scarlet ranks were about to give chase, but they were stopped by the Commissar, who ordered them to halt until the rest of the besieging force could enter the gap in the walls. A wise choice. The cramped streets and alleyways were perfect for an ambush.

"This is a grim scene," muttered Vachon, kicking over a decayed corpse and stabbing down when it twitched in response.

"Ahhh, but it is a much better scene than fifty-one dead Champions," Melrache grins as Herod nears.

The leader of First Company hung his war-axe by a loop in his belt, and wrenched off his helm with a grunt. The man's hair was plastered to his skull, wet with perspiration. His face was taut with eagerness for more combat, but the fatigue in his eyes was all too apparent.

"Why are we stopping?" Herod spat a globule of phlegm at the corpse-strewn floor, "We should be driving deep into Andorhal! Root these rats from their nests and extinguish them all with faith and fire!"

"Take a look at yourself," Vachon retorted, "You're in no condition to fight."

The Champion glared back in contempt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Melrache flicked at the lamellar plate that served as the Terminator's pauldron, and Herod winced as the steel piece fell from his shoulder.

"Maybe you have a point," he grunted, "But just a small one, you understand?"

"Just a small one," confirmed Melrache, nodding studiously.

The crunch of heavy boots is heard, and the three Crusaders turn to see the High Inquisitor and the angel making their way towards them. The former is dwarfed by the latter in size and immensity, but no one could deny that Whitemane carried with her an air of authority where none existed before. Regal would be the way to describe her.

"You have done well Herod," the Commissar inclines her head slightly in recognition, "This feat of prowess is praiseworthy, even for a group of warriors who are prone to praiseworthy deeds."

The Champion's chest swelled, though the thick chestplate he wore prevented the others from seeing.

"My knights would never see you or the angel disappointed, milady."

"I am sure they won't."

Whitemane took a few steps forward, distastefully stepping over the corpse of an eviscerated ghoul in the process. The former Inquisitor stared at the scene before her, taking in the ramshackle avenues and desolate streets that had once been part of a bustling city. Decrepit structures loomed as far as they eye could see, half-collapsed constructions abandoned long ago by their owners. If one held a glimmer of imagination, he or she could almost see the faint outlines of people moving amongst the wreckage. Ghosts amid ruins, thought the Lady Commissar. How appropriate.

"How do you wish for our forces to move into the city, High Inquisitor?" Vachon, always the logical one, asks.

Whitemane frowned slightly at the use of her former title, but let the irritation pass. She was in the presence of the angel, and she would not allow her temper to mar whatever impression he had of her.

"We will let the angel decide that," she replied evenly, choosing to ignore the beginnings of a sneer forming on the officer's lips.

"I don't think the angel is going to make decisions any time soon," Melrache says carefully, his eyes regarding the being in question with a mixture of trepidation and puzzlement.

"Don't you dare insult his judgment," the Commissar snapped in anger, her expression furious.

"I wasn't," the dark-complexioned officer amended hastily, "But he hasn't moved or spoke since the conversation started."

"Nonsense," Whitemane turned and inclined her head towards the man beside her, "Lord Angel, we will be most delighted if you could aid us in planning for a way to take the city."

The angel twitched.

"You…" the static-laced snarl causes the Commissar and the assembled officers to start, "No… It cannot be. You are dead."

* * *

The sounds. I hear them in my head but I am not sure they exist. The thud-bang of boltguns firing on full automatic. The piercing whine of a plasma cannon being discharged. The cackling hiss of unsheathed power weapons. And the hum of active power armor not mine. The cacophony of noise rages within my mind, and I feel reality sinking under a sea of forgotten memories.

Armored forms scurry past me, Scarlet Guardsmen carrying swords and shields as they rush forward. I blink, and the sight before me changes to my stunned astonishment. The crimson these men and women wear has been replaced by grey dress tunics and the plate cuirasses and shirts of chainmail that protect their torsos turned into bulky suits of carapace armor. The close-visored helms of steel are gone, and in their place are armaplas helmets sporting advanced targeting sensors fit for Cadia's finest. Hellguns are clutched in gloved hands, supplanting the blades that were carried seconds ago. I blink again, thinking that this is a hallucination. I am wrong. The Kasrkin do not disappear. Instead, they rush forward, Hellguns coughing beams of incandescent light into the foe.

But this… this cannot be so. How can this happen when minutes ago I led a force of Crusaders into the ruins of this city? I remember breaking through the walls myself, though the idea of scorching the stone first with promethium was one I was not sure would work. I even remember catching Keina in my arms when she unexpectedly fell on top of me along with a hefty dose of displaced rubble. So how can I be here of all places?

The Guardsmen scatter as enemy fire rake their positions. They dive into cover provided by toppled pillars of marble and… wait… There are no marble edifices in Andorhal. The city was built with wood and stone, at least that is what the Crusaders have been telling me. What is occurring is impossible, but I can detect no falsehoods in what I am seeing and hearing. As though if to ram this point home, return fire from the foe impact against the cover the Kasrkin are sheltering behind and send chips of marble flying in all directions.

A strong hand grips tight my pauldron, and spins me around. An ivory faceplate stares at me with crimson visors, and the memories it causes to surface are almost enough to bring me to my knees.

I am rooted to the spot. This cannot be happening.

"Brother-Sergeant," the Astartes says, amusement evident in his voice, "Why are you hesitating?"

"You…" my vox-link cackles into life as I say back, "No… It cannot be. _You are dead_."

The Space Marine's way of response is a low chuckle. He surges past me, a power sword swinging in one gauntleted fist, a Storm Shield clasped in the other.

"Come on!" he calls back, "The enemy show themselves!"

The enemy? But the Scourge are already dead at our feet. I turn to follow the Astartes' motion and my eyes narrow in hatred at what they see. From the swirling dust, shapes begin to emerge, shaped like men, but sized like giants. Boltguns are clasped in their hands, but dark and horrendous sigils cover the ancient weapons instead of the Imperial Eagle. Silver outlines etch across blood red armor, and the snarling, screaming faces of daemons contort from the ceramite surface like an unholy mosaic. Curved horns stretch from cruel faceplates, filled with ire and promised malice.

Word Bearers. The cursed dogs of Lorgar.

My plasma pistol is already pointing towards the first of the Chaos Astartes, such is the instinct from ten millennia of indoctrined hatred. My finger grazes the trigger and I can already imagine the burst of sunfire that will obliterate the traitor from existence.

"Lord angel?"

The Word Bearer in my sights suddenly becomes hazy and distant, as though if he were a flickering mirage. I curse inwardly at this. Is my visor imaging failing? Were not enough prayers said to the Machine Spirit? No matter. I will kill these traitors alongside my brothers and defend these tormented people with my life.

"Lord angel? Are you alright?"

The Chaos Marine disappears from view, and I scream silently at this outrage. I was not done! _I was not done!_ Bring the traitor back so I can extinguish his life with holy flame! While a single heretic still lives, there can be no peace in this galaxy! Bring him back so I may cut him down with my blade! _Deliverance_ hungers for traitor blood, and its legacy will not be denied! _BRING HIM BACK!_

A soft hand rests on my arm, and my fury halts before it can reach its crescendo. I glare down and see a Guardswoman staring up at me. Where is her helm? All Kasrkin seal themselves in their carapace suits when battle is to be done, and this female should be no exception. Then I notice the color of her hair and reality comes crashing down upon me.

"Whitemane," I snarl, my mind struggling to come to terms, "Is… Is there something you need?"

"Well, no," the Commissar says, hesitation in her tone, "You just seemed… out of it."

An understatement.

I look back to where the Word Bearer was, should be, and all I am greeted with is a row of ruined buildings. The Cadians are gone too, replaced with the forms of Crusaders, moving past me to finish their deployment inside the city. My eyes search for the Astartes that spoke to me, but he too is gone. All I see is vast stretch of devastation that is Andorhal. But this makes no sense. How can I mistake this desolate city for that _place_? Yet the Kasrkin… the Chaos Space Marines… _him_… they all seemed too real to be false.

"Lord angel," Whitemane draws my attention again, "Is there something wrong?"

I look down and see that there is something akin to worry on the Commissar's features. Of course. These humans look to me as their champion, and anything that should ail me would cause them concern.

"I-I trained as a cleric when I first joined the Crusade," she continues, suddenly fidgety, "and though it has been long since then, I still remember much of that training. If there is anything of burden to you, I can be of s-service and listen to your troubles."

My brows rise at this. It is doubtful that this woman can tend to my spiritual needs. She is not a Chaplain of my chapter, and thus, the teachings of our ancient rites are unknown to her. What's more, she will never understand the Astartes psyche, for she is not one of us. That is one reason why the Reclusiarchs of our order are chosen amongst fellow battle-brothers and never from outside organizations such as the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition. For a Chaplain of the Adeptus Astartes must hate the foe more than his brothers, must possess the ability to inspire feats of valor in warriors who know no fear, and must retain the spiritual health of men whose enemies dwell in the realms of nightmare. How can this former Inquisitor compare to that?

From the corner of my eye, I see Melrache nudging Vachon with a grin on his face. I resist the urge to grimace. Another meaning lost to me.

"I am fine," I say, emotionlessly as to hide the distaste I have for the Commissar's suggestion, "And I will have to decline your offer," disappointment flashes on Whitemane's face and I am quick to add more to my words, "A matter strictly of tradition, of course."

"And here I thought we belonged to the organization with the most tradition," Melrache jokes.

"You have no idea," I state solemnly back, thinking of the various rites and customs of my chapter.

"If that is the case, I understand," Whitemane nods, freshly recovered from her disappointment.

"Enough talk about counsel and service," Herod grunts roughly from the side, "And more discussion regarding the Scourge still in the city."

"Since when did the Crusade's Champions become so enamored with discussion in matters of war?" Vachon states wryly.

Herod growls at this, but lets the comment slide. Excellent. Some self-discipline will do the pseudo-Terminator a world of good.

The Champion turns back to me, features stern and unyielding as rock.

"These fools think I am too worn for the next engagement," he gestures to the two Scarlet Captains that stand with him, "Tell them angel. Tell them that the Emperor's Chosen will never back down from a fight."

"You have been fighting against an overwhelming mass of enemies," my words cause a flicker of annoyance to appear on the man's face, "Your Terminator armor possesses no servos and fiber-muscles that are present in the suits that grace the armories of a Space Marine chapter. Your human body must surely be taxed. Rest awhile, and rejoin the combat later. Glory can wait."

"See?" Melrache nods in agreement, "Even the Lord Angel understands you are in no shape to fight."

"But we are First Company!" Herod protests vehemently, "First into battle, last to leave! You said so yourself, sire. If we are to stay out of this battle before the end, we will be bringing shame to the oaths we have sworn that night!"

"You will not be denied your place in the conflict," I reply with as much patience as I can muster, "In fact, there is much importance in staying behind. It is likely that the lich will send forces to cut off our means of retreat. If that proves to be the case, then your men must be ready to stop them. Make no mistake Herod, the position of rearguard is just as important as the vanguard, sometimes even more so."

The Champion steps back, mollified, but far from pleased. Had he underwent the same gene-modifications as I have done, no doubt an Assault Squad is where the Chapter Master would have placed him.

Whitemane shakes her head at her subordinate's still rebellious expression. She turns to me, and I see the question in her eyes before she can ask it.

"How should we enter the city, lord?"

"Three divisions," Vachon suggests before I can respond, "Moving down three alleyways next to each other. That way, we'll be able to support one another if things go awry. The only barrier between us will be the rows of buildings."

"A fine strategy when we are facing normal foes," I grunt, "But you forget the enemies we must destroy will throw themselves against us without a second thought for their lives. They will not care if there is a means for us to support each other. By dividing our forces, we allow the Scourge to play to their advantage. It will be like sharpening your opponent's blade for him. No. We choose one path, and we move all our forces down it. By concentrating our strength, we deny the enemy a means for ambush, while at the same time maximizing the potential harm we can inflict. So states the Codex Astartes."

If my disagreement with his plan troubles him, Vachon does not show it. But then again, he is no Perrine, whose sole purpose it seems is to counter every opinion I give.

The Lady Commissar seemingly agrees with me, as she starts pointing and gesturing for her warriors to gather before the advance. I consider watching the deployment and measuring how effective Whitemane is at motivating her men. The thought passes as quickly as it surfaces. If the Crusaders cannot even manage this simple task, then there is no hope they can ever become proper Guardsmen.

I stomp away from the arraying soldiers, and make my way into the shadows cast by toppled buildings. The humans can take the main street towards the city center. I will shadow them from the alleyways and search for threats lurking in the darkness. That and I need some time to digest what I have just seen…

* * *

The city was eerily silent, and that bothered many amongst the human ranks. No sound was heard, except the clink of metal upon metal as the armored warriors moved. The silence was like a suffocating veil, blanketing the loose formation of Crusaders and causing shadows to jump in their minds. Eyes riveted on each and every depilated structure that was passed, wary for an ambushing ghoul or leaping geist. Hands gripped swords in a tight embrace, ready for a pouncing undead to burst from a sundered doorway or shattered window.

Eight hundred men and women stalked through the ruins of Andorhal, cautious and alert. A good portion of Scourge had disappeared into the city, and none wanted to be dragged by rotten hands into a dark alleyway when no one was looking.

First came the swordsmen, blades leveled and shields clutched tight. They came in squads, blocks of men slowly advancing through the ruins, each squad watching the others' back. A gesture from Melrache, Perrine, or Vachon would send a dozen running forward, seeking cover behind piles of rubble and debris. The swordsmen would halt and wait, scanning for enemies, weapons braced. A return gesture from one of the scouting team, and the advance would continue, scores of warriors slowly treading over the hushed streets.

Next were the spearmen. Steel tips pointed in the direction of the gloomy buildings on each side, they followed the swordsmen companies in their methodical advance. Faces were twisted into grim expressions under steel helms. They had to be even more alert, for their duty was to guard the battle-mages that strode amidst their ranks.

Following them were the Myrmidons. Usually loud and noisy in their advance, today they were a subdued lot, prowling without sound along with their less zealous comrades. The Commissar's orders. Anyone who made unnecessary noise would be punished swiftly under Interrogator Vishas's supervision. Nobody, not even the most Light-addled fanatics, would dare defy that.

The militia advanced after the Myrmidons, ranks scattered and loose. Not warriors, and certainly not soldiers. They mimicked the actions of their more experienced cohorts, and made no noise as they passed rows of collapsed buildings.

Last came the huntsmen, Loksey's chosen few who walked backwards with arrows trained and ready. If the Scourge should choose for an assault to the Scarlet procession's rear, they would be met with a volley of accurate shafts. Growling wardogs stalked alongside their masters, brought to the frontline for the first time since the incursion into the Plaguelands.

The silence continued, unabated, and the dread that festered in the hearts of men grew with each passing second.

Whitemane felt the presence looming behind her and made to turn, a cry of warning ready to leave her lips. A massive gauntlet enclosed her mouth and muffled the scream to an incoherent murmur. Her own hands clutched and grappled with the digits covering her face with desperate strength. She had almost succeeded in prying one loose when a harsh whisper sounded by her ear and halted her struggles almost instantly.

"Be still!" the angel growled softly, and Whitemane craned her neck to see crimson visors glaring at her, "And be silent!"

Vachon and Melrache had already swiveled on their feet, and their blades were half-drawn from their sheathes.

"I am going to release you now, Lady Commissar," the angel's voice was barely audible, and a far cry from the usual grating tone he used, "but whatever you do, do not make noise."

The gauntlet drew back, and the woman it once held relaxed visibly.

"The Scourge surround us. From every angle. The lich is cunning. It has positioned its forces in such a way that should we have sent in our own force in separate portions, there would be little left of us come the next day."

Whitemane swallowed, and the officers beside her displayed similar signs of dismay.

"But Araj has gambled and lost. The lich thinks we will be divided, when in fact, we have gathered as one. The Scourge still surround us, but their ring is loose and ill-formed. They are distanced too far away for a full-on assault, and so, they will send in successive waves of coordinated attacks to destroy us."

"What do we do?" Whitemane asked in a low whisper.

"Follow my instructions to the letter, and we will be the rulers of this place before nightfall."

The Crusader commanders nod, and the angel leans closer.

"Listen closely …"

* * *

The first sign of the attack was the piercing shrieks that sounded from the skies. Shrill and harsh, they came from a flock of winged beasts that soared for the concentration of Crusaders on the streets below. At a distance, they looked almost human; figures shaped like men but sporting bat-like wings. It was only up close that such a notion was dispelled. Bestial faces with piggish snouts contorted as fanged maws opened and closed. Shaggy manes grew around thickset necks, coating grey skin with rough and uneven fur. Great, reptilian pinions sprouted from each beast; spindly arms with leathery membranes attached. Claws the length of swords and shaped like hooks were what these monsters used as feet; three cruel talons curved forward and one back so prey could be grasped from the ground and lifted screaming into the air. The Scourge have no name for these twisted monstrosities, but to the armies of Lordaeron before the kingdom's fall, they were called Gargoyles, and the term stuck.

Sweeping downwards on tattered wings, the beasts descended, talons outstretched like a flock of warped predatory birds. Their claws would rip and tear at the humans cluttering the streets, rupturing the steel they wore and lacerating the flesh protected behind. Some would grip struggling men in their claws before taking off and shredding them in mid-flight. The formation of Crusaders would falter at this aerial onslaught, made panicked by such wholesome butchery. Then, they would retreat, haltingly at first but with continued assaults raining down upon them, flee into a disorganized rout. After all, the humans had no way of repelling an attack from the air.

Harsh screeches of victory sounded as the flock of Gargoyles neared their prey. They could make out pale faces staring at them from the streets, and the brazen fear each held in turn. Shrieking, laughing, the winged terrors met the Scarlet warriors in combat with talons lashing in vicious strikes.

A hundred gleaming spearpoints stabbed upwards, and the shrieking laughter quickly devolved into raucous screams of pain. Plumes of blood erupted from hunched bodies, black arterial spray spewing forth as the polearms thrust home. Flapping forms plummeted from midair, winged limbs thrashing in frenzied death throes. Blades flashed down, swung in heavy blows by Crusader swordsmen and the frenzied convulsions ended in pools of ichor.

Those not impaled by the phalanx of unexpected lances took to the air, howls of hatred coming from bestial snouts. A few stragglers were caught still within spear range, and the humans below wasted no time in dealing with them. Membranous wings were slit open, sunken chests skewered through, gangly limbs broken in odd angles. Flailing, half a dozen of the Gargoyle flock crashed to the ground and were cut to pieces by the Crusaders that thronged the streets.

The rest sought the sanctuary that was flight, and circled the humans from above with harsh calls and hateful stares. It was only in the air and after they suffered gruesome casualties that the Gargoyles observed the Scarlet formation in detail. Men armed with spears stood intermittently in the solid block of warriors, all of whom were pointing their polearms towards the heavens. The spearmen themselves were flanked by pairs of shield-wearing Crusaders; each raising his shield so that to the Scourge creatures ringing above, the formation looked like an armored turtle with spikes jutting from its plated back.

The Warrior Kings of Macragge called this the _testudo_, and their legions of warriors made use of this formation long before the coming of the Imperium.

The Gargoyles barked out shrill cries to one another as they circled above, bloodthirst warring with common sense in their brutish minds. Some tried sweeping down again, but the spears were placed in such fashion one could not reach the manflesh without risking being impaled. Another half dozen of the winged beasts were brought down by well-aimed thrusts, and many more bore hideous wounds from glancing blows. The injured trailed blood as they flew, and splatters of the unclean fluid landed on the formation of locked shields and protruding spears below.

Frustrated screams broke out amongst the flock. They had been promised easy prey, frail victims without a means to fight back. This wasn't it.

At least the Crusaders had no way of harming them at such heights.

The sound of armored men maneuvering caused many amongst the pack to gain in altitude. Confused, the Gargoyles glared down to see shields being withdrawn from the formation, vulnerable spaces being left in the dense ranks. Laughing gleefully, the beasts descended en masse once more, eager to take advantage of the humans' willful stupidity. Before the flock could fully capitalize on their gain, however, crimson-clad archers moved into the vacant spaces, ducking under the shields of their swordsmen cohorts, and lifting their bows in unison towards the Scourge creatures.

This was enough to cause the flock to abandon the attack, though they continued circling above. They were not worried about the Scarlet bowmen, these beasts, not at all. There were relatively few of the Crusaders armed with bows, and no doubt whatever volley they meant to send would be diminutive and easily avoided. After all, the flesh-smiths of the Scourge, though perverted in their sense of creation, had made sure the Lich King's minions would prove able in their specified roles. That, and the skin of a Gargoyle was transmuted to obtain a texture resembling that of stone. Only the most forceful of blows could pierce their hides, which made them nearly invulnerable to projectiles sent from range.

Confident in their conflict, assured of their eventual victory, the Gargoyles were utterly unprepared for what came next.

A sheet of sorcerous flame materialized, covering the human formation in the likeness of a dome-shaped shield and blocking them from view. Startled calls sounded from scores of bestial lips at once, and the flock flew higher to escape from the sudden wave of heat. The first explosion occurred seconds later, a flash of light the only warning of the murderous detonation. Three Gargoyles were caught within the blast radius, and their smoking, charred forms spiraled down and disappeared beneath the veil of flame. Others followed shortly, ravaged bodies tumbling from the air as dozens of arcane eruptions suddenly burst among the flock.

The survivors stared dumbly down, stunned surprise overcoming the innate sense of self-preservation inherent in their minds. Their morbid curiosity was soon rewarded, as a hundred bolts of arcane fire emerged from the shimmering shield and shot for the hovering Gargoyles. The realization hit the beasts almost instantaneously. The archers were shooting from beneath the magical barrier, and the flame shield's touch created sorcerous projectiles from the loosed shafts as soon as they exited the wall of fire. Explosions of arcane energy rippled through the flock, tearing limbs from shoulders and shredding leathery pinions in mad welters of blood. Blackened corpses fell from the skies; some plummeting into the skeletons of ruined buildings amidst clouds of scattered debris and rubble, others disappearing into the barrier of purple fire and crashing to the street below. The mournful howls of the wounded drowned out the faint whistling of descending blades, but all too quickly turned into pained screams before dying out altogether.

The remainder of the flock wavered, unsure of what next course of action to take. It took another volley of glistening missiles and two dozen more dead plunging towards the ground before the Gargoyles drew away from the fight. Out of bow-range but still near to pose a threat, they watched sinisterly as the shield of flame disappeared to reveal Crusaders breaking their spear and shield formation.

* * *

It was said that an army in the midst of maneuvering was the most vulnerable to the enemy. A host of armored men, all moving, all counting on one another to ensure formation remained unbroken as they wheeled and pivoted to reform a broken line or marched to take the place of a withdrawing ally. All it took was one misinterpreted order, one flaw in the plan of generals, one simple mistake, and everything could fall apart. And so, a good army, a fine army enlisted disciplined, orderly men, drilled them to near-perfection, and hired worthy officers to command them into battle.

The Crusaders were not a good or fine army. They had no disciplined men to call their own, and certainly did not drill them in the ways of formation and combat. No, the Crusaders were not soldiers. They were an amalgamation of different people, all with different professions, forced into the task of war by a threat beyond their capability to defeat. There were footmen of Lordaeron's long-defeated army amongst them, but these were in the minority. The Scarlet Crusade was an organization formed by those who had lost their future to the Scourge, and it made sense that its many recruits shared this common suffering. Farmer's sons, merchants' daughters, all were welcome under the Crimson Banner. But it would be a lie to say that these recruits were taught well in the ways of soldiery.

And so, for the men and women maneuvering on Andorhal's main street, it should be no surprise that their movements were clumsy and hesitant. But to the shadows lurking behind the ruins, 'clumsy' and 'hesitant' were not words they would use to describe the changing Crusader formation. Indeed, they preferred 'vulnerable'.

From the unnatural darkness that shrouded the city, the Scourge struck. Hundreds of them emerged from the alleyways and slanted corridors, some even bursting from the wooden frames of windows. Leftovers of the battle near the gates, and some that had been too far away to participate. Wretched ghouls panted and drooled in their mad dash forward, followed by scores of leaping geists that bounded over rooftops to get at the humans crowding the streets. These reanimated fodder were to be the anvil that the Crusaders would be smashed upon, a tactic the Scourge had learned most quickly when they saw it being performed by the humans.

The Scarlet warriors lacked the discipline of drilled men; they were brawlers, not soldiers, but that did not mean they were completely helpless. There was still enough strength in their arms to shatter Scourge skulls and more than enough faith to fuel them for the coming fight. The block of men and women dissipated, charging from the formation in their dozens with fierce war-cries coming from their lips. Heavy broadswords flash down, and the first of the undead to reach the humans stagger back with their own entrails looping about their legs. Shields protected the Crusaders from the lashing ripostes of their foes, and the crimson-clad men continued hewing down the wretched beasts that sought to overwhelm them.

Hammer and anvil, the angel had taught his charges. How to perform the tactic and how to execute it on the battlefield. The next logical step then, would be the teaching of how to combat this tactic when used against Crusader lines and how to defeat it. And despite the faith and devotion that swelled within his breast, the angel was still, in his core, a very logical being.

Scarlet soldiers smashed a path through the hordes of ghouls, relying on their faith-fueled fervor to push their way through the unyielding tide of the dead. Nimble geists leapt into the Crusaders from above, seeking to disrupt the humans from their already scattered formation, but were deflected away by teams of shield carrying warriors. A throng of Scourge, larger than the rest, punched through the stalwart lines of resisting men, and swallowed dozens of the red-clad guardsmen under a tide of slavering jaws and clawing of bellowing Myrmidons threw themselves into the fray, and batter back the undead in a whirlwind of mace blows and sword strokes.

Break the anvil before the hammer falls, and the bludgeoning strike that will follow would be greatly diminished. A simple vision, but a hard one to realize.

A squad of swordsmen under Captain Vachon supported by complements of militia are the first to drive the Scourge back into the alleyways. Before the undead can break out, the swordsmen form a wall of steel with their shields, and brace against the entryway. The militia behind them drive their shoulders into the backs of their warrior brethren, creating a packed rank of flesh and iron that the undead cannot bypass. Vachon cries out over the chaotic din, his rapier stabbing and thrusting in a lethal dance of elegant bladework,

The Iron Angel is with them in an instant, black armor awash with the blood of slain foes. A geist, maniacal eyes gleaming from ragged holes torn in a hooded face, springs from the mass of crowded dead, and closes with the giant cackling with glee. A massive fist arrests the geist's motion, caving in its skull in midair and flinging the lifeless corpse back into the faces of its cohorts. Before the body can land, the angel has already lifted his fire-spewing weapon to his hip. A gout of burning promethium erupts from the flamer's barrel, a rippling, swelling sheet of white flame that forces the Crusaders in front to fall to the ground. The scorching fire coats desiccated hide like glue, and shears the flesh from bone in a tide of suffocating heat. The Scourge caught within the conflagration are incinerated in a heartbeat, and the licking flames that adhere to every surface in the corridor prevent the undead from using it again as a passageway.

The angel is gone as quickly as he appears, his legs taking him in long strides towards another pack of Scourge being forced back into the darkness from which they came. A plume of white-hot fire engulfs the alleyway, and the ghouls trapped within the cramped space are charred to bones and ashes by the unforgiving flames. Turning, the warrior-giant unleashes a second jet of searing promethium into the rotting doorway of a two-story building, and cremates the gaggle of living dead inside before they can burst out in ambush.

Captain Rhiana and a team of burly militia clash against a mixed tide of ghouls and skeletal horrors. The warriors with her wield their two-handed hammers to devastating effect, swinging them in circles overhead before smashing the bludgeoning weapons into decayed faces. Rhiana takes a bone-jarring blow to her chest, ignores it due to the surges of adrenaline filling her bloodstream, and pins a snarling ghoul to a nearby wall with her shield. The unholy creature fights back like a caged animal, kicking with its gangly feet and lashing out with its one free arm. The female officer stabs her blade into the howling thing's body again and again, and stops only when the wall is smeared with foul smelling blood.

Melrache leads two dozen of his company to aid the embattled militia captain, and together, they form another wall of resolute shields and steel-protected flesh in the mouth of an undead-filled alleyway. Melrache calls out to the distant form of the angel, but halts when the man in front of him is hacked down by a grinning skeleton. The Crusader captain slices the leering, skinless face of the offending Scourge in twain, and drives his heavy claymore point first into the abdomen of the ghoul behind. Using the twitching, spasming body as a barrier, the swarthy officer takes his place in the front rank of shield-wearing men, and winces as a sweeping claw takes his helm off from his head.

It is not the angel that saves them, but Doan and three of his apprentices. Tired from their earlier work, the war mages nevertheless raise their arms towards the heavens and intone words of the arcane. Spikes of ice are what the heavens reward, a storm of falling stalactites, each the width and length of a human arm. The blizzard descends on the luckless Scourge mass, and the carnage is great to behold. Shards of ice, tips as sharp as newly forged spearpoints, crash into the seething horde, puncturing craven skulls amidst explosions of blood and gore. The undead writhe and convulse under the sorcerous barrage, tattered bodies battered to the ground in defeat.

Little by little, the Crusaders push the Scourge back, cornering them in cramped alleyways and corridors, where a gout of flame from the angel's weapon or a massed bombardment of magical projectiles from squads of war mages end their unholy existence. The anvil is being fractured, and would be split entirely if the hammer did not fall soon. The lich realizes this, and sends its most prized minions into the fight.

A score of abominations, all that is left from the ill-lead foray beyond Andorhal's walls, stomp for the melee, bellowing in fury. In their pudgy hands are massive cleavers, shaped like the implements a butcher would use on cattle. Serrated hooks wave from behind immense shoulders, attached to mutated arms bulging with muscle. Each one is as tall as a one-story building, a great slab of meat and bone driven by a simple mind to kill and maim. And that is only one part of the hammer.

Skittering around and behind the flesh golems are twisted figures that have no right to exist in both reality and imagination. Scythe-like limbs tipped with razor-sharp chitin sprout from segmented bodies bristling with coarse hair; four on each side. Three are used for locomotion, a swaying, scrabbling motion resembling that of an insect. The last pair is used for combat, swung in flesh-parting strikes and bone-shearing blows. Dozens of eyes glimmer dully from fiendish faces clacking with saw-like mandibles, and the noise they make can only be described as maddening drone.

Crypt Fiends, called Nerubians by scholars, the race of spider-men from the frigid lands of north, swarm the main street, filling the wide boulevard with the rush of frenzied bodies. With them are the remnants of the Gargoyle flock, descending down on the heads of the Crusaders with shrill cries of vengeance.

The hammer falls. And the Crusaders counter.

Elemental fire entwine with lethal hails of ice and bolts of arcane energy as Doan and his war mages lash out with their sorcerous prowess. The front ranks of the Scourge force are felled instantly; bright explosions of magic bursting amongst them followed by jagged shards of ice and jets of scorching fire. Spider-men are charred to blackened ruins, their bodies tumbling together in heaps of twitching limbs and smoking carapace. Abominations are blasted from their feet, fatty bodies rent apart at the seams in flashes of purple light. Gargoyles are torn asunder in mid-air, screaming shrilly as slivers of hardened ice enter and exit their twisted forms in a wrathful storm. The bodies pile up, lifeless and mutilated. But there are much more where they came from. Over the fallen of the first rank the rest of the swarm charges, trampling corpses underfoot as they sought to close with the humans dressed in crimson.

The Crypt Fiends are the first to reach the Crusader lines. Swift and inhumanely nimble, the arachnid warriors wove past the looming figures of abominations and glided forward on slim, insectoid legs. A flimsy shield wall with spears jutting from behind is formed by the humans to block the spider-beasts. But this was no obstacle. Perhaps many would be impaled on the polearms, but the remainder would drive into the formation and scatter it apart in a tempest of scything blows.

Seconds before the clash can occur, a collected howl rose for the blighted skies, sending hairs stiffening on Crusader necks and causing the spider-men to pause in confusion.

From beneath the shield wall, the first beast emerges, a great lupine figure with a snout full of yellow canines. It does not stop when it sees the horrifying foes arrayed before it. A great shake of its shaggy mane, and the beast continues forward, sprinting towards the Crypt Fiends in powerful yet sleek strides. Its brother beasts loop their way past the Scarlet formation, ducking through braced legs before pelting full-tilt for the Scourge creatures. Once more, a collected howl rise to the heavens, but this time with the addition of short, hateful barks.

The hounds of Loksey and his huntsmen have been unleashed, and they leap for the surprised enemy with their hackles raised.

The arachnid warriors regain their senses, and throw themselves against the war dogs in a tide of chitinous carapace and serrated arms. The two sides meet in a tumultuous din, and those who do not excel are quickly left in pools of their own blood. Scythe-limbs stab and hack, curved fangs gnash and rend. The Crypt Fiends have strength, size, and protection in their favor. The hounds have speed and reflexes in theirs. The combat should have been even, if not slightly tilted towards the Nerubians. But reality dictated otherwise. The hounds tear into the spider-men, shredding flesh with their canines before leaping back as slashing ripostes grace the air. Dark green blood splash onto the street, spilling from gory maul wounds and deep, tooth-caused punctures.

Bred with wolves, the hounds of the Crusade are, so that the pups that are birthed will have their father's feral savagery when in battle and their mother's unbendable loyalty when beside their master. Twice the size of a nobleman's guard dog, and four times as fierce, their very presence is enough to send chills down any man's spine. What's more, the huntsmen have taught their animals the way of killing, and when added to a cunning mind that feared nothing save their owners; they made lethal weapons.

The war dogs penetrate the swarm of spider-beasts, evading the swinging weapon-limbs of the foe, and weaving around chitinous frames to assail the arachnids from their most vulnerable points. The chaos of battle is where the hounds thrive, and the milling, thrashing Crypt Fiends are unwelcome guests to their home. A gnash of teeth from a darting, mangy form, and a Nerubian would collapse, its own intestines spilling from the torn gash in its abdomen. A bounding leap from a wiry, furred shape, and an arachnid would be knocked to the ground, dazed and momentarily helpless. The snapping sound of jaws being shut would be heard, and the dog would spring away, muzzle coated with blood. Making use of the confusion being spread, several hounds would attack at once, sprinting from different directions towards a lone enemy. Jaws clamp onto limbs, inflicting horrible injuries, and forcing the Nerubian to defend instead of attack. One war hound, prowling from the edges of the combat, would dart in when the Crypt Fiend was busy fending off its cohorts, and tear the throat from the Scourge creature in a soaring jump. With their target freshly killed, the dogs would disperse, dissolving away into the general melee to inflict further havoc amongst the enemy.

The weight of the Scourge charge gradually diminished, and the shield wall that was formed to soak up the momentum of scores of undead beasts break and separate to allow for a counterattack. The shields belong to the sword-wielding Crusaders, so it is the spearmen who are the first into battle, surging past the reforming swordsmen with their polearms leveled. What few of the arachnids that have not been besieged by snarling war hounds see this new threat and rise on their agile legs to engage it.

This time, reality agrees with logic on who should be the victor. The Nerubians may be fast and strong, but the spearmen have reach.

The polearms stab and thrust at the monstrous-looking creatures, striking from a range that makes the scythe-limbs of the foe nearly useless. The spearmen advance in formation, and the arachnids that skittered forward to delay them were impaled by the block of marching soldiers and crushed underfoot by dozens of stomping boots. Some of the wiser Crypt Fiends skirted the sides of the formation, and cast nets of sinewy silk into the human ranks in the hopes of halting them. A few warriors are dragged away from their place in line, entrapped and helpless in the cocoons of tough material. The Nerubians butcher these men in the shadows, and the pained cries of their victims is what they think will force the Crusaders to pause.

The humans prove them wrong.

The spearmen continue their march forward, and they clash against the spider-men locked in a losing battle with the war-dogs of the Crusade. The swordsmen that follow are the ones who take revenge for their murdered comrades. Charging into the surprised enemy, the crimson-clad warriors surround individual Nerubians and hack them to pieces with sturdy broadswords in the cover of darkness. With justice meted out, the swordsmen disengage from the shadowy alleyways, now filled with arachnid corpses, and rush for the main conflict.

Pounding behind them are Gyran and his contingent of Argent Dawn, along with the three nonhumans not in their ranks.

An arrow and a knife compete in a race of lethality, the shaft spiraling in a straight-lined path and the stiletto flipping tip over hilt. The arrow pierces the eye of a Crypt Fiend, and the throwing knife drives into the gleaming pupil of another. The two arachnids thrash in agony, limbs pummeling the ground in a pain-induced dance. Both of them fall quickly to a pack of snarling war hounds, whose keen senses can discern weakness in prey long before humans can. Then the warriors in white crash against the thinning crowds of spider-men, and the melee further sides in favor of the humans.

Despite these reinforcements, the conflict is far from decided. The Scourge are not privy to concepts such as fear and defeat, and they will not rout when other armies have long fled the field. The minions of the Lich King are suicidal in their devotion, and here, on the blood-slicked streets of Andorhal, they prove that devotion.

Nerubians, bodies covered with wounds from beast and man alike, surge their way into combined mass of Crusaders and Argent Dawn. They impale themselves on the phalanx of lowered spears and expose their battered frames to slashing swords all for the chance to bring down one more of the living. Most do not get this chance, and are slain in the turbulent fight that follows. Some, however, manage to brave the spearpoints gouging deep holes into their flesh and blades chopping into their skin as well as the growling war dogs harrying them from the rear. Bleeding horrendously, the desperate arachnids swing wildly with their serrated arms, and manage to inflict grave injuries on the humans surrounding them. But this suicidal show of valor is nothing compared to the cornered fury of the abominations.

Decimated by the sorcerous barrage, only five of the flesh golems remain, but that number is enough to commit great mayhem to the human ranks. The undead ogres smash their way through the melee, battering aside dozens of men and women with swipes from their meaty paws. Warriors clad in armor, in plate no less, are hurled bodily away as though if they weighed nothing, and shouts of alarm come from the pressed mass of humans as the monstrous creations continue their bloody advance unchecked. The abominations, for their part, display scores of gruesome wounds on their mountainous bodies, but the enormous slabs of fat behind their skin protects them from strikes that would otherwise prove fatal. Even Gyran and his disciplined followers of the Dawn are no match for these beasts, and the paladin is sent flying by a casual backhand from a roaring flesh golem. The Argent Templar crashes against the side of a stone building, and slumps to the ground, the breath knocked from his lungs. Eva hurries to his side, but the Scourge brute is quicker. Chuckling with malicious mirth, the abomination raises its notched cleaver to split the winded paladin in two.

The face of the monster bursts apart like a rotten fruit, spraying chunks of shredded cranium and liquefied brain matter across the wall. The flesh golem teeters, swaying drunkenly as all eyes focus on its suddenly headless corpse. It falls, and its immense frame topples backwards to the floor with a meaty slap.

The angel's gun is still smoking, but he is already in motion, sprinting forward to the hissing snarl of armored joints. He vaults over the ragged lines of humans, and as he lands amidst the foe, his toothed blade whirrs to life. The first opponent he meets is an arachnid warrior, mandibles clacking furiously together in a Nerubian war-cry. The angel does not halt to face this foe. Instead, he whips his sword in a horizontal blur, and the Crypt Fiend becomes two Crypt Fiends, twitching bodies painting dark circles of arterial spray on the ground below. Another spider-fiend skitters forward to engage, weapon-limbs drawn back to strike. The toothed blade, now shrieking like a demon, enters the Nerubian's face through its fang-filled maw, and exits the back in a great burst of blood. The giant does this without a pause in his motion, and he pulls his sword out of the collapsing creature while still running.

The looming form of an abomination impedes his path, and the cleaver in the brute's hand descends with frightening speed. At the last second, the angel moves fluidly away, and the heavy blade falls on nothing but cold stonework. The weapon sticks there, its weighty edge stuck in the groove freshly carved in the street. The angel uses this to his advantage, and drives his churning sword to its hilt into the flesh golem's side. The brute bellows in pain and flails wildly as it feels its internal organs being shredded. It takes a step back, and blade embedded in its obese body goes with it. The hilt is wrenched from the angel's grip, and a curse sounds from his helm as the weapon suddenly leaves his gauntlet.

A faint whistling is all the warning he receives before the next blow comes, and the giant ducks just in time for the cleaver to sweep past his head. Another abomination takes the place of the wounded one, and its next swing gouges a wicked groove across the angel's breastplate. Sparks fly, but the black-clad warrior stands his ground. His wide-barreled gun swings up, and the subsequent volley saws the undead ogre in half.

The mist of blood that stains the air afterwards clouds the angel from view. This is soon changed when an armored form blasts back from the arterial haze, two fresh dents blemishing his carapace. The giant skids to a halt, throwing loose pebbles and chunks of masonry into the air as his feet searches for purchase on the cobblestone streets.

A pair of abominations, twins in the most twisted sense, stomp through the blood mist, iron cudgels swinging in each hand. Brothers on the surgery table, these two, linked through blasphemous rites and dark magics of reanimation, and their sense of coordination is fearsome to behold. Four maces smash and chop, making craters on the stone street and demolishing walls in explosions of splintered wood. The angel throws himself to the side, rolls to compensate, barely avoiding the raining blows with no time to aim his gun. He is being battered backwards towards the Crusader lines, and it does not take a gnomish rocket scientist to realize the carnage that would occur should those cudgels sweep through the packed ranks of humans.

The angel recognizes the danger. He dodges the next swing, and in that short interval between blows, he charges for the ruined husk of a building. The brutes follow, chortling with glee, and leave a path of destruction on the terrain behind them. He launches himself for the construction's walls just in time to avoid the falling cudgels. His plated boots impact first, and the built-up momentum behind them is enough for the angel to hurl his bulky form back towards the abominations.

To an outside observer, it appeared as though the angel had scaled the wall and then leapt for the undead brutes in one fluid motion.

The combat knife is drawn in midair, and the blade flashes as it leaves its sheathe.

Steel tip meets hardened skull, pierces it in a spray of blood, and pushes through the cracked dome to drive into the brutish intelligence protected within. The angel clamps onto the abomination's neck, and delivers two more swift thrusts into the flesh golem's neck and face. But the strikes were not needed, as the very first one had already parted the beast's brain in two.

The two opponents fall together, wrapped in a lethal embrace, and their combined mass is sufficient to dent the stone street.

A howl arose as the second abomination saw its twin's defeated form lying motionless on the ground, and at once its attacks became erratic and muddled as it sought to bring vengeance to the one that had slain its bond-kin. The angel hurls himself backwards as the cudgel pounded craters into the street, a grim smile twitching beneath his helm. The brothers had been methodical in their assault before, supporting each other in a whirlwind of strikes that prevented him from closing the distance. Now that has changed, as one of the brothers is dead, and the gaps left in the remaining brute's defense is easily discerned.

The combat knife shifts in gauntleted hands, spinning until it is gripped tip down and hilt up.

The brute swings its mace, shattering stone, and raises the other to strike. Time slows. A precise moment. A single second. That is all the angel needs. Servos-enhanced legs spring from the ground, barreling into a full-pelt run. A blur is what mortal eyes see as the giant closes the distance and rolls under the falling cudgel.

One swing and the abomination sinks to one knee, yowling as it feels the sudden loss of its left leg. Another swing, and the flesh golem is made immobile, a deep, tendon-severing cut on each leg. Two more swings, and two obese arms fall to the ground amid twin pools of blood. The undead ogre snaps at its tormentor with its thickset jaws, helpless, outraged, desperate. It is a failed display of emotion, as the angel proceeds to slice the brute apart piece by bloody piece.

Some of the Crusaders look away, disgusted by the sight. The majority do not, and marvel at the brutal bladework of their hero.

Angel of Death indeed.

Gyran hobbles to the victorious warrior's side, his face clouded with anger. Eva supports him, wearing a tentative expression on her own countenance.

"Stop this! Stop this now!" the paladin shouts.

The angel does not hear, and his blade falls on flesh and bone like a butcher's knife.

"Damn it! Stop this madness now or by Uther, I will force you to stop!"

The blade sinks into meat, but stays there, and the abomination gives a strangled gasp of relief as it senses a temporary reprieve.

"You will force me to stop?" the angel whispers, mockery embedded in every word and syllable, "You, whose soul is confined to the body of a mortal man, wish to stop _me_? Tell me then, Templar, how you will stop a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes."

"With this," Gyran snarled, lifting his war hammer, "And with the Light."

The paladin spat a wad of blood onto the street, and glared at the man in front of him with something akin to hatred.

"Look at you. Look at what you have done," a gloved digit stabs towards the wheezing form of the flesh golem, missing its arms and legs with slabs of flesh peeled from its sagging frame, "By the Light, man! Have you no compassion at all? Kill the thing and be done with it! You do not need to prolong its suffering!"

"Why should its suffering end so quickly?" cold, merciless visors meet with pupils dilated in fury, "Why should I end its life when it deserves agony and pain?"

"Because you are torturing it! Kill the brute! Finish it, but for the sake of all that is holy, give it some pity!"

"Do you think this beast gave pity to the ones it killed?" the angel's voice had grown soft once more, "Did this walking blasphemy show compassion to the ones it butchered? You are weak, paladin. Mercy stays your hand, and the pity you show your enemies will not be reciprocated in kind."

"Yet you showed mercy to us within the Scarlet dungeons!" Gyran hissed, "You were rightly horrified of the tortures inflicted by them!" the paladin jabs at the myriad ranks of Crusaders, who glare back in loathing.

"You were innocent. _Is this beast innocent?_"

"Innocence has nothing to do with it! No being deserves to be tortured! Not human, not Scourge!"

"There are plenty of beings deserving of torture," the giant replied evenly, not a speck of anger in his tone, "And I would visit ruin and agony upon them all if the Emperor gives me the chance."

The paladin's eyes narrowed, and his grip on his war hammer tightened painfully.

"You are treading on a thin line between faith and fanaticism. It is that thin line that separates sanity and madness. You are dangerously close to crossing it."

"Is that so? Let me tell you something, _human_. I have waged war on a hundred battlefields and not once have I run. My belief in the Emperor of Man has granted victory to me and my brothers against foes more terrible than you can ever imagine. I light the darkest places of this galaxy with my faith and never once has it led me astray. But what about you? Light-bringer, man of the false faith. You would show our enemies; vile, heathen scum who would reduce us to slavery and extinction without a second thought, compassion? You would show them _mercy_? You dare to tell me, honored brother of the Death Spectres, to show pity to a foe that would tear down the Empire of Humanity? Think again, paladin, and wonder who truly has gone mad."

"I have heard enough!" Gyran snapped, "I have seen the insanity that has befallen the Crusade firsthand! They were good men once, all of them. But hatred for the Scourge has twisted them into madmen, and now you follow the same path!"

The angel chuckled.

"Wrong, paladin. My brethren and I have been following that same path for longer than you can imagine."

Disappointment flashes in the paladin's eyes.

"I see now that no words will convince you from your chosen path, but by the Light, I will not allow you to drag my men into your madness. We will follow you into the deepest parts of Andorhal, and we will help you slay the lich. But that will be it. We will leave after this place is afire, and the Crusade and the Dawn will split once more."

Silence passes between the two, with the crowd watching around them. Then the angel tilts his head, nodding, and the tenseness passes though awkwardness remains.

"So be it."

The Argent warrior shakes his head, and gives a long, frustrated sigh.

"There is much hatred in your heart, Iron Angel, and it will destroy you if you do not rid of it."

The giant laughs bitterly, and Eva winces at his next few words.

"Hatred is all I have," he says before his blade starts descending again.

* * *

**Author's Notes: Sorry for the long delay, but unfortunately, this semester of college has me very busy. I have a bunch of labs to do, and the reports I have to write take a huge portion of my time. Again, I encourage reviews for this story, as it helps my drive to write greatly.**


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